Revenge
by Elfpen
Summary: Gilan is given a special assignment to investigate trouble in the north. On the other side of Araluen, Will goes missing. Old foes re-appear, and they're looking for revenge. Trouble is brewing, and Gilan and Will are left fighting for their lives.
1. Assignment in the North

Title: Revenge

Author: Elfpen

Summary: Gilan is given a special assignment to investigate trouble rising in the north. Things appear straightforward, but when Will goes missing, and old foes start to re-appear, the game is changed and both Gilan and Will are left fighting for their lives. Can Halt get to them in time?

* * *

Crowley had been filing reports when he heard the knock on the door. He'd heard the approaching footsteps several moments before, but thought it would be rude to open the door before the visitor announced his arrival. Besides, the commandant thought, with that near-silent, springy step, there was no doubt as to who it was.

"Come in, Gilan."

The latch on the door rose and Gilan stepped into the study gracefully, shutting the door behind him. He smiled a greeting at his commander, despite the serious nature of their meeting.

"Morning, Crowley." He addressed his superior in a casual way. Many would have considered this greeting to be incredibly odd and disrespectful, but then again, the Rangers were not an ordinary group of people.

"Coffee?" Gilan offered cheerfully, carefully producing two cups seemingly from nowhere. "I dropped by the kitchens for a bite to eat when I got here. They make wonderful coffee. I might have to come to Castle Araluen more often." He said. He seated himself across from Crowley's desk and gave the commandant a cup, before helping himself to his own.

Crowley had to smile at the younger man. Among a group of tattered old grumps, Gilan was refreshingly cheerful almost all the time. Briefly, the Chief Ranger wondered how Gilan had managed to keep that cheerful attitude through his apprenticeship, considering the disposition of his former master. He almost laughed at this thought, but stopped when he remembered why exactly they were having this meeting.

"Thank you, Gilan." Crowley said as a grateful gesture, and sipped at the coffee. "Glad you could come. But without further ado, I think we need to get right down to business."

"Of course." Gilan sat up a little straighter, letting his features fall into a more serious expression. "As I understand from your letter, I am being assigned to work some investigation in the north?"

"Correct. There's been some trouble stirring for a while, and lately several knights have gone missing. When one of Duncan's leading commanders disappeared, he asked me to get to the bottom of things."

Gilan's brow furrowed. "What kind of trouble? Does this have anything to do with recent events up at Macindaw?"

"No, nothing about Macindaw. The stuff we're talking about seems to be coming from an area a good deal east of Macindaw. As for what's going on, we've been getting reports from the northern fiefs of some suspicious activity… It could be a slave-trading ring, it could be a rising revolt, for all we know, it could be an enemy infiltration of our borders. We're simply not sure. But whenever activity is reported, some figure of knighthood or nobility goes missing. It has all the barons and councilmen gnawing at their nails – even Duncan is feeling uneasy about it. Our job, that is, _your _job, is to find out what the devil is going on – before anyone else can go missing."

"Right." Gilan said slowly, digesting this information. "Who all has gone missing?" He asked. Crowley reached into a drawer and produced a piece of parchment.

"I made a list before you came – those are all of their names, titles, and stations, along with when they were reported missing." He gestured.

Gilan took the list and carefully scanned it. He frowned.

"Crowley, these at the end of the list, the most recent ones, they're all from Redmont." Gilan observed, noticing the names of several men he used to know in his apprentice days at Redmont. Crowley nodded.

"Yes, I had noticed that. I'm not sure of the meaning, though." He unrolled a map of Araluen and laid it out on the desk. He pointed to an area a few hundred kilometers east of Norgate. "The reports have been coming from here. And if you follow that list chronologically," He gestured in a downward, slightly varying southwestern path towards Redmont, "The disappearances form a chain slowly working their way towards Redmont fief. We haven't the slightest idea why that is."

"I suppose you're hoping I'll find out?" Gilan asked. Crowley nodded in affirmation.

"Correct. Your job is to find the source of the disturbance, observe them, figure out what in the world is going on, report back, and depending on what you find, take action against it. You'll be headed to a small village called Thornby, the closest settlement in the area. It will be your base for this assignment."

"Will I be going alone?"

"For now. We will send in reinforcements later on if need be. But for now, I need you to keep a low profile and stay completely out of sight." He smirked, his eyes alight with irony. "I hear you're rather good at that. The senior rangers, Halt and I all agreed you were the right one for the task."

"I'm flattered, Crowley." Gilan said with an equally ironic smile, "But won't it be a bit hard to report my findings if I am as isolated as you suggest?"

"Which is why you'll be in touch with Wardil. He's a pigeon handler who lives in the area. He usually works for the Couriers by flying urgent messages across country, but he's agreed to work with us on this one. You might recall we used a similar tactic with Will when he was in Macindaw. Aside from the complications that Kerren created, the system worked remarkably well. I've had in mind to employ a few pigeon handlers on a more full-time basis… But that is beside the point. Wardil will be in easy contact. You'll meet him at the Black Stag Inn on your way into Thornby and he'll explain the correspondence details. While you're in contact with villagers, you'll wear commoner's clothes, as to not draw attention to yourself. And you'll be taking on a guise for general safety of the mission. We want this to be as low key as possible – we don't know who we're dealing with. They could be bandits, they could be enemy spies. You need to lay low and be extra careful until you know for sure."

"Understood."

"Good. I will be filling you in on the details throughout the day. Stay packed. I'm sure the stable hands are already bedding down Blaze. He'll need the rest. You leave at first light tomorrow. But, in the mean time…" Crowley's voice took on a more lighthearted tone as he looked down at his coffee cup, which had been emptied of its contents through the course of their conversation, "Perhaps we should go back down to the kitchens for another sampling of this 'wonderful coffee'. Mine seems to have mysteriously vanished." He said in a joking manner. Gilan smiled brightly.

"I couldn't agree with you more, Commandant."

* * *

Well? Read and review, please!


	2. Caught With His Trousers Down

Will tried to remain as calm as possible, glancing slowly down at the blade placed precariously by his jugular. He wasn't entirely sure how or why he had ended up in this situation, but he, a King's Ranger, was presently being manipulated by a bandit at dagger point. The whole scenario was thoroughly embarrassing, Will thought. It was one thing for a Ranger to be outsmarted and overtaken by a formidable advisory. It was quite another for a Ranger to be caught unawares with his trousers down - quite literally, in his case.

Will had just returned the previous day, having spent a week out in the field, making observations and preparing his monthly report for Seacliff fief. In the seven days he spent outdoors and out among the common people, he hadn't really had any opportunity to wash. So once he was home, he'd gone out to the small stream behind his isolated cabin for a much-needed bath. With colored tree leaves fluttering noisily above him, He'd set his bow, quiver and knives a few meters away from the water's edge, taken off his cloak, tunic, and shirt, and had bent down to freshen up his face with a splash of water. It had been rather cold in the cool autumn weather, but he ignored the chill, simply glad to be clean again. He'd removed his boots and stepped into the shallower waters, and was just reaching for the ties on his trousers, when suddenly:

_Snap!_

To anyone else, the noise might have appeared to be just another sound of the forest. But Will's senses had been schooled to distinguish natural sounds from foreign sounds. A warning flag shot up in his mind and his Ranger Training took over. Without hesitation, he stepped swiftly out of the river and reached for his saxe knife. But he had reacted one second too late. He let out a cry of pain and surprise as a small dagger lashed out and embedded itself in his right forearm. The hilt was gripped by a grizzly, large hand, followed by a hairy arm, followed by a massive shoulder and a ragged, snarling face. He was so unusually caught off guard that Will didn't even see the man's other fist until it had connected with his jaw. His head snapped back and spots danced before his eyes. He heard a splash, and suddenly he was underwater. With his uninjured left arm, he heaved himself up out of the stream and lunged for the spot where he knew his saxe knife still lay, just out of reach.

"I wouldn't do that, if I were you." A deep voice said. The accent was heavy and slurred, but the underlying threat was unmistakable.

Cold steel pressed up against Will's neck, and a sinking feeling formed in his gut as it slowly dawned on him that he was trapped. Slowly, he glanced down at the knife pressed against his flesh. The blade was already stained with blood – his blood – from when it had pierced his forearm. Will didn't need to look at his arm to know that it was bleeding profusely and painfully. Water flowed off of his hair to mix with with the blood from the knife, sufficiently covering his torso in a bloody mess. More blood dripping from his arm turned the water around his ankles a dark crimson color. Doing his best to give his assailant no immediate reason to slit his throat, Will looked up at his attacker. A tall, gruff, dark-haired man glared down at him with something akin to hatred in his eyes. Will looked again at the knife at his throat, then at his surroundings, hoping for some means of escape. He found none.

"We've had a fine time tracking you down, Ranger." The man said. Will tried not to show his confusion. _We? There's more than one? _Discreetly, he glanced around, scanning the area for any hidden figures. The man caught the gesture, and smiled humorlessly. "You won't see them anywhere near here, Ranger. But don't worry. You will. They've been looking forward to meeting you again." _Again?_ Will couldn't repress the feeling of dread that the man's unwavering gaze instilled in him. The knife bit into his flesh. He had a very, very bad feeling about this.

* * *

Will winced as his captor tied a crude bandage around his injured arm a bit tighter than he needed to. A clean shirt, looted from Will's own dresser, was shoved at him, along with a pair of breeches.

"Put them on." The man ordered, gesturing with his knife.

Will felt quite embarrassed and vulnerable in his unarmed, half-naked state, but he valued his own life and welfare, and so he did as the man said, stripping off the few pieces of sopping wet clothing that he was still wearing and replaced them with the clothes provided by his attacker. As soon as he had buttoned the last button his shirt, the dagger was back at its place at his neck, and Will stilled his movements. The tall man waved his head at the door to Will's cabin.

"Go." Was all he said. Will obeyed. As he passed, he looked longingly at his saxe knife, and considered grabbing for it as a last attempt to escape – but the dagger at his throat bit painfully against his neck, its wielder glaring darkly at him. With annoyance, Will resigned do as his captor wanted.

Upon entering the cabin, the man asked for a pen and paper. Straight-faced, Will informed him that he could find some in the cupboard by the hearth. After having Will retrieve the desired articles, the dark man roughly shoved him into what would normally have been his dining chair, and put the paper and pen on the table in front of him. Carefully, Will turned his head to peer up at the man.

"What would you like me to write?" He made sure his voice was a monotone as possible, holding no hint of sarcasm or frustration.

"A letter." The man said. "To Baron Ergell, explaining that you'll be gone for a while."

Will nodded slowly, his worst suspicions confirmed. _So he means to take me captive, then. _Will's mind was working quickly, trying to find some way to help his situation. A thought struck him.

"Would you like me to forward this letter to my Commandant, as well?" He asked calmly. The man seemed confused.

"What?"

"My Commandant will wonder where I am when he does not receive my report within the next week. I am only assuming you don't want a group of ten or more senior rangers tracking you down once they realized I've been captured." Will said, holding his breath, hoping that the man would take the bait.

The man seemed genuinely alarmed by this prospect, but disguised his dismay and put on a gruff snarl. "Fine. Forward it if you like. They'll never find you, regardless." He tried to sound intimidating.

_You keep thinking that, _Will was thinking.

"But make that letter convincing enough. I don't want them thinking there's anything out of the ordinary. Got it?" The man pressed his dagger harder against Will's skin to emphasize his point.

"Of course." Will picked up the pen, situated the paper, prayed fervently that his plan would work, and began to write.

* * *

In his study, Baron Ergell lounged in his chair, a warm fire crackling in his fireplace. His booted feet were propped up on his desk, on top of many different official documents, some of which still had their wax seals intact. His eyes were closed lightly as he dozed off. A sharp knock on his study door startled him awake.

"My Lord, a messenger." He heard his assistant say. Ergell shook off his surprise.

"From whom?"

"Ranger Treaty, m'lord."

Ergell brought his half-empty glass of wine to his lips and sighed. What did the Ranger want? He hadn't seen the man for two weeks – and that was only upon Treaty's insistence. Despite his knack for problem-solving, including the infamous incident with the Skandians only a few weeks after his instatement to Seacliff fief, Will Treaty got on Ergell's nerves. He didn't appreciate the way the young ranger lurked about the fief, never in one place, never predictable, acting as if he could do however he pleased, without even consulting his Baron.

Of course, Baron Ergell only pretended not to know that for however young he may be, the Ranger did, in fact, have more authority than he himself did.

"Come in." He allowed, the slightest hint of begrudging in his voice. The messenger came in, walking in a stiff way, bowed formally, placed a sealed letter on the Baron's desk, bowed again, and backed out of the room. Ergell rolled his eyes and reached for the document. He ripped off the oakleaf wax seal and quickly scanned over the letter, overall rather uninterested. It took him only a few moments, despite the fact that the letter filled almost the whole page. He scoffed and tossed the letter aside.

"And there he goes again!" Ergell said to himself. "Taking off without warning, strutting about as if he owns the whole darned fief! Doesn't even know how to compose a decently formal letter…" Ergell glanced down to the bottom of the letter. "Forward to Crowley? Well good, he won't be my problem anymore, then. Maybe his Commandant will be able to knock some respect into him…" As he grumbled about his fief's Ranger, unaware as to the danger that said Ranger was currently in, Ergell roughly shoved Will's letter into an envelope, along with a quickly written note to Crowley, sealed it, and called the messenger back in to give him his orders. Once the messenger had left with the envelope, Ergell propped his feet back up on the desk and nursed his glass of wine.

After all, Will Treaty was no longer his problem.


	3. Dealing with Pompous Lords 101

Author's Note:  
Alrighty, here's the next installment. Sorry for the wait. Crowley isn't exactly happy with Baron Ergell, Gilan's on his way north, and well, let's just say that when Halt finds out Will is missing… Well, 'Warpath' would be the understatement of the century. How will this all play out? Keep reading and you'll find out!

* * *

Crowley frowned at the letter, reading, scanning, and re-reading it over. The signature at the bottom was familiar, as was the semi-legible penmanship. But the contents of the letter itself made absolutely no sense at all. He set down the sheet and reached for the additional note that was enclosed in the envelope.

_Com. Crowley,_

_I received this letter from Ranger Treaty on the fourth day of this month. As you can see, he requested that I forward it to you. Assuming that, as his Commandant, you have easy contact with him, I would request that you speak with Treaty concerning his responsibilities here in Seacliff. He has left for prolonged, unexplained absences on multiple occasions. One in particular last winter lasted for three months, in which time I had to deal with the large pile of messy paperwork he left behind._

Crowley scoffed at this. Paperwork? Will Treaty trudged all the way up to Macindaw to spend three months single-handedly hold off a full-fledged Scotti invasion with a band of mercenaries, and this Baron was concerned with _paperwork?_

_He has given insufficient reports to myself, he has not given my title proper respect, he has been completely inconsiderate of my time, and has been overall negligent of his duties._

Crowley found his jaw hanging open. "Negligent of his duties?" He repeated venomously, glaring at the note in his hands.

_I would be grateful if you, as his Commandant, would discipline Ranger Treaty accordingly. I know that he is particularly young for a ranger, and though I am loathe to say it, I think he is still in need of training where formal associations are concerned. As I said, I would be grateful if you would speak to him about it and take action accordingly._

_-Baron Ergell, Lord of Seacliff fief_

Crowley couldn't believe what he was reading. This man was not only completely ignoring Will's station and the fact that he was answerable only to the King and perhaps Crowley himself, but he was discounting the quality of his training. In effect, this was to question the abilities of the Ranger Halt, one Crowley's closest friends, one of the most capable men he'd ever met, the most famous Ranger in the Corps, and a practical father to Will.

"That man has some nerve." Crowley whispered to himself. Slowly, almost without realizing it, the Commandant's hand closed over the note and crumpled it into a small ball of paper.

"I think," Crowley said to no one in particular, "That it is about time that this Baron Ergell was paid a visit."

* * *

Ergell was sitting in the large main hall of the castle, where he received village leaders to hear their complaints and concerns. Several men had came and gone already, and he was quickly losing interest in the day's proceedings. However, the monotonous cycle of the day was broken unexpectedly when his assistant came walking into the room quickly, with an urgent kind of air about him.

"M-my Lord, someone here to see you." He stuttered nervously. Ergell sighed, supposing it was another villager. He wasn't exactly sure why his assistant would be so nervous about it, though.

"Yes, who is it?" He asked with a disinterested tone.

"My Lord, its-"

Before the elderly man could finish, the door to the hall was thrown open with a bang and Ergell could hear the guards at the door trying to dissuade the intruder from storming into the room, but to no avail. To any Baron who knew the high-ranking officers of Araluen, the sight of this particular man storming into their hall with a less than pleased look on his face should have chilled the blood in his veins. Strangely, Ergell seemed only mildly surprised.

"Ah, Commandant Crowley. I was hoping you received my letter, though I didn't think that you would come all the way to Seacliff just to…" The man's voice faded away as Crowley came closer and the dangerous expression on his face came into clear focus.

"Baron Ergell." Crowley's voice was uncharacteristically low and threatening. "I believe that you and I need to have a little chat. Alone."

The Baron's face expressed his shock and confusion at his current situation, and he cast around for a suitable answer. This attempt failed to produce anything beyond unintelligible mumbling.

"Your study will do fine, _my Lord._" The Ranger spat out the title as if were bitter to the taste. Ergell, startled and offended, yet unwilling to say so in the presence of this seething, threatening man, stood to his feet. After a moment to regain control of his mouth, he forced a smile.

"Of course." He said. "Right this way."

After they were in his study, Crowley dismissed two confused bodyguards with a wave of his hand and swung the study door closed with a slam.

"Are you bloody mad, or do you really have so little respect for the Ranger Corps?" Crowley's voice was devoid of its normal diplomatic tones, instead replaced by anger.

"I-I am not quite sure what you mean, Commandant…"

"Not sure!" Crowley scoffed. "That letter that you received from Ranger Treaty last week, the one you forwarded to me, you put a note in with it." Crowley reminded him. He looked at Ergell, giving the man time to say anything he wanted to say. He didn't reply. Crowley shook his head slowly at him. "You should be ashamed of yourself. Will Treaty was trained by the most capable ranger I know – you'd be darn happy it's me talking to you, not him. Yes, he does leave without explanation, but he is a _Ranger. _He doesn't _need _a bloody explanation. For however young he is, he _is_ your superior."

Ergell recoiled in surprise and offense. "My superior? But I am the Lord of this fief-"

"And Will's job is to make sure that the Lord of this fief does his job properly – not the other way around."

There was a long pause, where Ergell couldn't find the nerve to say anything, and Crowley glared daggers at the baron.

There was a lot of authority problems going on here, Crowley could tell. But there were more pressing matters to attend to.

"When did you last see Ranger Treaty?" He asked with a pronounced tone of authority.

"Three weeks ago."

"And his letter came when?"

"One week ago."

Crowley sighed. "And did you find anything odd about the letter, Ergell?"

"Well, yes," The baron started in a high way, "But that Treaty has never been able to compose a decent letter. Like I said, Commandant, you really need to teach the boy some respect."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than had Crowley grabbed a handful of the man's collar and shoved him up against the wall, knocking a table and several stacks of paper over in the process. Ergell's eyes were wide as he grabbed at Crowley's fist. He tried to touch his feet to the floor, but found that the Ranger had actually lifted him up several inches. Terrified, he looked down into the cold blue eyes that glared into his.

"So help me if you insult Will Treaty in my presence one more time, you will very quickly find yourself flying out that window into the sea." Crowley had a sudden understanding for the maverick tactics that Halt sometimes used where pompous lords were concerned. "The only person around here who needs to be taught some respect is _you, _Baron Ergell. Now. I'll ask again: do you know anything at all about Ranger Treaty's whereabouts?"

The wide-eyed, red face shook from side to side.

Crowley dropped the man, and Ergell gasped for breath, holding his neck where Crowley's fist had pressed against it. Crowley looked at him disgustedly.

"The King will hear about this." He said simply. The Baron paled. Crowley continued. "The letter was a warning sign as clear as day, Ergell. Something is going on, and for your sake, I hope that Will isn't in any kind of trouble. If he is, and Halt finds out that you were too daft and self-absorbed to do anything about it…" He didn't finish, but instead just shook his head at the man.

"Good day, Baron Ergell." He said, and walked out of the room, leaving a very disheveled, scared Baron behind him.

* * *

Gilan pulled the cowl of his cloak low over his face as the cold rain intensified. The heavens had opened some hours ago, and had since shown no sign of stopping the torrential rainfall that persisted as he rode on. Despite the fact that it was midday, the skies were dark, cloudy, and sunless. If he didn't already know better, Gilan would have thought it was near dusk.

With a shiver, Gilan wished there was a place somewhere in this forsaken plain that would give him shelter from the storm, but there was no place to be found on the dark horizon. But if Crowley's directions were correct, he should reach Thornby within the hour, and in Thornby, an inn. The thought of dry clothes and hot cup of coffee gave Gilan the motivation he needed to keep pressing on.

Gilan was tempted to replace the plain green traveler's cloak he was wearing with his warmer and much dryer Ranger cloak, but he knew that to don any form of distinctive clothing was to give away his identity to anyone who might be watching. He couldn't have that, and so he kept the cloak on.

Under him, Blaze's sides rumbled lowly, and Gilan looked up. Mercifully, finally, there were lights in the distance, barely visible through the thick sheets of rain pounding down on the sparse grass. Thornby, at long last. For the first time that day, Gilan smiled. He leaned down and patted Blaze's wet neck.

"We're almost there, girl. Just another kilometer or so. Come on." Gilan nudged his horse encouragingly "Let's find out what exactly is going on in Thornby."

* * *

Author's Note:

I know, I know. It's a horrible place to stop. I wasn't really sure where to leave it off, but wasn't sure what else to write. So, here you go. Hope y'all like it. Read and review, please! Also, I just realized after re-reading 'The Ruins of Gorlan' that Blaze is a mare, but I've been referring to her as a 'he' throughout my RA fanfics. O_o Oops. I'll have to fix that.


	4. Incriminating a Friend

Author's Note:

It took me FOREVER to figure out how I was going to format Will's letter and what was going to be in it. When I finally settled on an idea, I still didn't know if it would be the one I would use. After a whole lot of over-complicated ideas that fanfic . net would not accept were tossed out the window, I finally settled on an insanely obviously format. I really, really wish I could have used something more intricate, but oh well. That's the world of fanfiction for you. Anyway, here's chapter four. Enjoy.

* * *

In Redmont fief, inside the small cottage just along the edge of the woods, Crowley mournfully held out Will's quiver, longbow, and knives for Halt's seething inspection. Crowley was by no means fearful of his long-time friend, but he found himself flinching as Halt silently took the articles from his grasp. The murderous ranger turned his eyes to the torn, bloodied shirt that Crowley also held. It looked as though part of it had been torn off as a rough bandage for something before the rest was discarded on the riverbank. Halt took it and could feel the anger bubbling up inside of him.

"Who did this?" He asked. His voice was quiet, low, and venomous. His glare was even more so.

"I don't know, Halt." Crowley said. "That's the problem of it all. No one does. He did send this, presumably before…" Crowley couldn't finish the sentence, since he didn't know exactly what had happened to Will. Even if he did, he wasn't sure he would want to finish while in Halt's presence. He held Will's odd letter out to Halt. The other ranger took it and read it with an iron gaze.

"Crowley, what nonsense is this? The second of October… What? Criminal... Crowley, this letter doesn't make the slightest bit of sense!"

"Exactly. Will knew that something was up. There's a message in there - I'm sure of it - but I can't figure it out. I was hoping you might be able to decipher it."

Halt glanced back down at the letter in a determined way. After several long minutes, he pursed his lips a few times, and then sighed in annoyance. "It doesn't make any sense. Any of it. Crowley! Why are we in here poring over a letter when Will is out there, in danger?" He looked at his friend in exasperation.

"Because right now, Will could be anywhere in the whole darn country - if he's even in the country at all anymore - and before we go gallivanting off to find him, we need to have some idea as to where we're going, and that letter is the only thing that might tell us bloody anything at all!" Crowley rounded back with just a bit more bite than he had intended. Halt looked up at him in surprise, and the Commandant settled down and put a hand to rub his temples.

"I'm sorry, Halt," He said, "I feel like I've lost enough time on this as it is. If I hadn't had to have dealt with that pompous idiot, Ergell…"

"I could have dealt with him." Halt put in a-matter-of-factly.

Crowley didn't even hesitate. "Halt, if you had dealt with him, he'd be dead, and you'd be facing death and exile – for Will – again." The man ran his hand through his quickly graying sand colored hair.

Halt rolled his eyes and stood. "Well we have to do _something!" _He said, irritated.

"And we _will." _Crowley stood also, before picking up the letter and re-folding it thoughtfully. "Tell me, Halt," Crowley started with a certain tone in his voice that told the other ranger that he was quickly formulating a plan. "Is your wife in town?"

Halt shrugged. "Of course."

"And her assistant, young Alyss?"

"Yes."

Crowley nodded. "Perhaps they might be of help to us."

* * *

_To Baron Ergell,_

_I am sending this letter to inform you that I have Taken an undetermined leave of absence from Seacliff fief. In the past few months, I have been tracking down a notorious criminal known in these parts for multiple murders, attacks, robberies and other crimes. I had only just made said criminal my Captive when he escaped from my supervision By way of a clever diversion. However, I do not believe this Criminal to have gotten very far, and so I will be headed out to surrounding areas in search of him. I assure you that I will be quite fine on my own – there is no need to send Help. In the meantime, I apologize for any inconvenience my absence causes._

_I also would ask that you forward this letter in its entirety to my Commandant, Crowley, so that he may be informed that my usual Four week report will not be coming until at least the Second of October._

_Respectfully,_

_Will Treaty_

Lady Pauline ran her finger down the letter, scanning it for any hints or tell-tale signs of code. She could find none. Sighing despondently, she rose from her bent position and looked down at the letter, puzzled. Her husband was watching her sideling, and after a moment, spoke.

"Anything?"

"No." she said, in an uncharacteristically clear tone of frustration. "I can't see any kind of code, hidden or otherwise. Not courier, not Royal, not of the Corps… It's all so plain that I can't see anything wrong with it – except the strange wording and the fact that it makes no sense at all, no matter how you read it." Pauling crossed two elegant arms and peered curiously down at the letter with Halt and Crowley looking over either of her shoulders.

Just then, Alyss came into the room with an unusually alarmed expression on her face.

"What happened? Where's Will? And what on earth is all this mumbling about a letter?" She was a flurry of concern and questions.

Normally, Halt would ruefully bemoan the questioning attitude of young people, but under the circumstances, he saw best to inform the frantic girl as much as he could.

"We don't know what happened, and we don't know where Will is, and this letter – so it would seem – is just about the only thing that might tell us the answers to those questions." He said bluntly. Alyss looked at him for a few short moments, absorbing this information. Then, her face transfigured itself into a solemn expression of determination. Without asking, she took the letter from under their noses and put her face up to it, reading.

"Huh. That's funny…" She said after a moment. The three others in the room immediately stood up straighter.

"What is it?" Halt was the first to ask.

"This letter, here," Alyss turned the paper towards them so that they could see. She pointed a long finger towards the letter 'T' in the word 'Taken' in the beginning of the letter. "It's capitalized." She said. Halt shrugged.

"It's just a mistake, I'm sure. Will doesn't exactly have the best handwriting in the world." He said. Alyss shook her head.

"Perhaps not. But he just doesn't write like this… And here!" She quickly pointed out another miss-placed capital letter. Halt looked at it, and then up to the blond.

"And how would you know how Will writes?" He asked, genuinely curious.

"We write to each other, of course." Alyss said matter-of-factly, not tearing her eyes from the page. Halt's eyebrows rose, and he cast a half surprised, half amused glance at his wife that clearly said: 'Alyss and Will write to each other?' Pauline returned the glance with one of her own: 'Quite often.' It said. 'Now listen to the girl. She may be on to something.' It was strange just how accurately the married couple could read each other's looks.

"You see, he normally writes a 't' something like this:" Alyss took a charcoal pencil from the nearby desk and traced out a slightly messy, but definitely lower-case 't'. "Not like this." She pointed to the 'T' in the letter, and then, to emphasize her point, traced out a copy of it next to the previously drawn lower-case 't'.

"So," Halt began, catching up on Alyss' lead, "If we were to copy down all the capitals, we would get…" He took the pencil out of Alyss' hand, which she hardly seemed to notice, and began writing down letters.

'_T…B…E…I…I…T…S…'_

"No, no," Alyss stopped him. "Just the out of place ones – the ones that shouldn't be there.

'_T...C…B…C…H…F…S.'_ She stood back and surveyed the results doubtfully. Just as she was about to sigh despairingly, Pauline came in between her assistant and her husband and took the pencil away from Alyss.

"Not the letters," she said with an exited yet very disturbed voice as she stared at the page, "The words." In her clean, flowing script, she wrote:

'_Taken…Captive…By…Criminal…Help…Four…Second.'_

The room was silent as all stared at the chilling message. Will? Captured by a criminal? The thought was unsettling, but it was so unlikely that they could hardly believe it. At the same time, however, on the very same paper onto which the message was scrawled was the perfectly tidy, legitimate and recognizable signature, _Will Treaty._

"B-but what is the meaning of 'Four' and 'Second'?" Alyss eventually ventured to ask, trying to keep her voice even. Halt didn't reply, and Lady Pauline shrugged. Crowley, however, was murmuring thoughtfully.

"Four… Second… Four… Two… Fourty-two? No…"

"Why did he even bother putting that paragraph at the bottom?" Alyss asked.

"There has to be an important bit of information in there somewhere." Pauline said.

"And why October? It's not like he could predict exactly when his report would arrive or when he would get back." Halt asked aloud. The three seemed at a loss, but Crowley stopped pacing suddenly.

"Wait… October? Four, second, October… For, two, October… October is the tenth month, so, four, two-" He stopped suddenly, and drew in a breath, eyes widening. The rest of the group turned around to look at him. "Four, two, ten." He breathed. He turned to face the others.

"Do those numbers mean something, Crowley?" Pauline asked urgently.

Crowley nodded. "It's a filing system we use at Castle Araluen, for administration purposes. Four-two-ten would be the fourth report of the second dispatch from the tenth office – my office." He looked over at Halt in particular. "That report is the report I sent out to all fifty about the northern-based abductions."

Realization dawned on Halt, and he let out a heavy breath. Pauline and Alyss still looked confused, but very alarmed. Crowley swallowed hard.

"They've taken him."

* * *

Will carefully timed his breath to be even and calm, without any hint of the nervousness eating away at his gut. He could physically feel his pulse flowing through his jugular at a quickened tempo. Carefully, he put the ink pen to paper one last time in a swift signing of his name. It was painful with his injured arm, but he managed to write the entire letter legibly and normally. As he lifted the tool off the paper, the sheet was suddenly yanked off the table by a rough hand.

The offending man read over the letter carefully, scrutinizing. Will's heart was beating out of his chest, and he thought it a wonder that the other man couldn't hear it – or at least, showed no signs that he could. Will forced his gaze to be unwavering and unfeeling, masking any apprehension that might have manifested itself there. His captor read, re-read, and read again the letter that Will had carefully composed as instructed. This went on for several minutes, and just when Will thought he wouldn't be able to stand the suspense any longer, the man grunted and set the letter back down. A huge wave of relief fell over the young ranger, but he forced himself to act as if nothing had changed.

"Right then. Send it off to Ergell. And make it normal-like." The man snapped his gaze over to Will in the hopes of catching a glimpse of any telling emotion that he'd missed before, but Will wasn't about to give him that chance; he'd come too far to let a simple look give away his only apparent hope of rescue.

"Of course." Will said evenly, and reached for the red wax that had been melting in a round metal ladle over a candle. Along with it, he took a seal with a stylized oakleaf imprinted into it.

After a split-second long proof read to ensure that everything was in place, Will folded and sealed the letter with the wax and oakleaf seal, along with a silent prayer that his message would get through to its intended recipients.

The two men, captor and captive, went into town then, the gruff, dark man threatening Will with death should he in any way act unusual. The hidden knife at his back gave Will a strong incentive to stick to orders. The man had a huge dark brown steed with him, a battlehorse, by looks, but a none to well-groomed one for all its impressive size. Will wondered at first where the man had gotten such a horse, but then figured it was probably stolen.

After they found messenger to carry the letter to Baron Ergell, the two were on the road. As the man forced Will to trot alongside the huge battlehorse, Will silently bemoaned the fact that Tug had been abandoned back at his cabin. He couldn't get the horse's parting whiney of distress out of his mind. Tug was a resourceful, smart horse, he knew. He could fend for himself – he'd learned that in Arrida. Will only hoped that the stocky little pony would somehow find his way to help and not get himself hurt in the process.

After they passed the last hint of any civilization from Seacliff, Will's captor led him off the road and, after a quarter of a mile or so, instructed him to mount up behind him. It wasn't a very smart move, Will thought, putting an enemy so close to one's person with so many weapons available. This man did indeed have weapons aplenty - Will had already determined with a master's eye that there were two daggers hidden on the man's breast under his shirt, a particularly nasty long knife on the inside of his left boot, a small throwing weapon strapped to his right forearm, a stick-knife worked into his belt, and of course there was the obvious broadsword strapped to the man's left side. However, any hopes of utilizing any of these weapons against his captor were crushed to bits as the huge horse took off at a breakneak speed. Now seeing how he would never have been able to keep up with the horse at this speed, Will understood the reasoning behind the captor's orders to ride behind him. Apparently, this man had to be somewhere on time, and Will wasn't going to make him run late just because he couldn't run fast enough. The ranger bit back a groan as his small frame was jostled like jelly atop the horse's huge, bounding gait. Oh, how he missed Tug already.

* * *

That evening, several hours after sundown, not only was Will positive that every single muscle attached to his buttocks and upper thighs had been beaten into oblivion, but he was also incredibly hungry. He had barely eaten anything all day. Roughly, the dark man tossed a hunk of break over at him, and Will caught it deftly with his good arm. His hopes for a decent meal were raised for but an instant – at a quick sniff, Will found the bread to be stale with several spots of white mold on it. Picking these carefully off, he bit into the bland food expressionlessly. It was better than nothing, and something in the back of Will's mind told him that he might not get anything truly edible for quite some time.

However, Will's musings on his menu for the next several days were cut short when his captor unexpectedly spoke.

"In that letter," The man said, and Will looked up at him. "You mentioned a criminal." He spoke in a tone that made Will suspicious – this man was clearly up to no good.

"I did. What of it?" Will feigned indifference.

The man's eyes glinted. "A murderer, was he? A theif; a bandit – true scum of the earth, eh?"

Will shrugged. "He was – still is, I'd imagine, since he went missing."

The man's face lit up with a crooked smile. "A slippery one, is he?"

"Indeed."

There was a moment of silence where the man looked rather thoughtful, as though he was scheming something. Will silently watched him, trying to discern his purpose. Then, suddenly:

"What's his name?" The captor asked. His eyes held no hint of suspicion towards Will's part – he was truly interested in learning the identity of this 'criminal', it seemed. Will suddenly understood. _He wants to make connections, _he thought. _Criminal connections._

But that, Will knew, was a major problem, because the criminal didn't actually havea name. The criminal wasn't even a criminal, because there _was _no criminal. He'd made up that story to work into his message to get the point across, and now it was backfiring on him. Will swallowed hard. He vaguely recognized the greedy look on the man's face. He, as a criminal, would have been impressed by the imaginary man's repertoire in criminal achievements – especially to escape a Ranger's custody. Will, however, had no straight answer for the man, which could only end badly for the ranger.

But Will would be darned if his wit wasn't as quick as anything else about him, and so instead of stuttering or blanching, Will gave the man what he hoped was a thoughtful, appraising look as his mind worked wildly through his options.

He could make up a name. However, he would probably forget it quickly under stressful circumstances, and if he did, the man would see through his bluff and that could mean Will's life. Will dismissed the idea.

He could use a name of a different criminal. Then again, being a criminal himself, he would probably recognize the name of a fellow criminal, and if he did, realize that Will was lying. Will had a feeling that such a situation wouldn't end very well for him.

He could use the name of a non-criminal. Will mentally perked up. Now, that idea had promise. A real, familiar name was not easily forgotten, nor would this man recognize it, so long as Will didn't pick anyone famous like King Duncan, Halt, or some other ridiculously obvious personage.

So, just as the man's look began to turn to a look of suspicion, Will very quickly blurted out the first name that came to mind that was neither fake, criminal, or incredibly famous.

"His name is Gilan. Gilan Davidson."

* * *

Author's note: Oooh, this will prove to be interesting, now won't it? I don't really know if Gilan would go by 'Gilan Davidson', but since his dad's name is David… Yeah. I think you can figure out the reasoning behind that.

Hope you like it! If you did, (or even if you didn't) please drop me a review! I would be ever so appreciative.


	5. A Tale of Two Rangers

Author's Note:

Here's the next chapter! Nothing to remarkably hard about it, I don't think… So, yeah. Here we go!

* * *

Gilan, completely unaware that he was now a supposedly wanted criminal, was sitting calmly in the corner of the Black Stag, his still-drying cloak hanging over his shoulders limply. Normally, back at home, he would have taken off the cloak and hung it to dry on the coat pegs by the door, but here in Thornby, in an unfamiliar environment, he was glad for the concealment and the clear message that the dark hood sent: Leave me alone.

Unobtrusively, without even a turning of the head, Gilan observed the goings-on of the inn tavern, which was smoky and smelt strongly of ale, as any public house tended to. There were a few burly men up at the bar who looked as though they were either blacksmiths or very heavily built farmers. They had clearly had one too many tankards of mead, but thankfully, they seemed to be the type that mellowed cheerfully under the influence of alcohol, not grow surly or short-tempered. Their bursts of bellowing laughter were distracting, but held no concern for the young ranger. There was a small group playing a game of cards a few tables away, but so far, none of the proceedings had turned sour.

The rest of the room buzzed with conversation from table to table. Some took a late evening meal, some were having a drink after a long day. Some were in groups of five or more, some sat alone at the smaller tables. The topics of conversation were varied. Some farmers discussed the benefit of the recent rainfall, two housewives discussed the troubles and hurdles of keeping small children, (one bounced a toddler on her hip as she spoke) and from a table filled with greasy-bearded, unsavory types, Gilan caught a few grumbles of a conversation centered around the admittedly pretty young barmaid serving drinks that evening. With a blush, he studiously ignored whatever else the men at that table had to say and redirected his attention the room as a whole.

He scanned the room once more, wondering when he might catch sight of the man he was supposed to be meeting here. He'd never met Wardil before, and did not know what the man looked like. He'd hoped that the pigeon handler, in his contact with rangers, would recognize the signs: Dark figure, drawn hood, sitting unnoticed in a corner. (The best vantage point for any room) Gilan let his eyes sweep back and forth across the room, changing focus and range restlessly – a practice that Halt had drilled mercilessly into him when he was an apprentice. It was second nature, now, but could not be seen through the shadows of his cowl, and so to the rest of humanity, he might have well as been a statue situated at the table. A statue dripping with rainwater, perhaps, but a motionless, expressionless figure nonetheless.

Gilan was just starting to wonder where Wardil could have gone to when a thin man rose from a solitary table and peered carefully over at him before approaching Gilan's table tentatively.

"Are you Gilan?" he asked carefully. He was a thin man, but not overly skinny. He was about average height and build, with a smooth, honest face, bright eyes, and brown-blonde curls. He was young, Gilan realized, younger than he'd expected – without a gray hair on his head, Gilan couldn't imagine that the man was over the age of thirty.

"I am." Gilan answered clearly. He was interested and slightly alarmed to note that one of the men who had previously been discussing the attractive barmaid had darted his gaze over to Gilan when he acknowledged Wardil's question. He chose to ignore it, but stored away the action for later contemplation. "Wardil, I assume?"

The man sighed in relief and his previously apprehensive face broke into a wide smile. "Yes," he said, sounding relieved. "I was afraid to come over – I wasn't sure if it was you or not. Sorry it took me so long." Wardil sat down at the table in a fluid motion, looking completely relieved.

"It's alright." Gilan said, very aware of the gruff man's gaze still lingering on him. He shifted so that his back was to the man (still staring) and he lowered his voice. "It'd be best if you keep your voice down, Wardil." Gilan said, lifting his cowl slightly so that Wardil could see his meaningful eyeroll back at the eavesdropper.

The other man nodded slowly, understanding. He thought for a moment, and then smiled tightly at the ranger. "Perhaps we'd best move this elsewhere, then." He rose, and Gilan copied the motion.

"Have you had anything to eat yet?" Wardil asked kindly, ignoring the gaze that followed the both of them. "I'll have some food brought to my room."

* * *

Wardil had been staying at the Black Stag for two nights while he waited for Gilan. Being one of the few places for relaxation in the area, the inn was familiar too him, though he did not visit too often. He would return to his home after Gilan was settled in – it was close enough for easy contact with the ranger, but far enough away that no one would go picking around to find him.

The room he was renting was small, like most of the inn's rooms. Thornby was far from the lap of luxury; it was a small town, and of the five rooms that the inn kept for guest use, Wardil's room was probably one of the smallest. A young girl, about ten years of age and presumably the innkeeper's young daughter, had brought up a tray of bread, cheese, cold beef and a tall glass of fruit juice. Gilan had dug into the meal gratefully after smiling wide at the young girl, who had sheepishly returned the gesture with her gap-toothed grin before scuttling away back downstairs.

Wardil smiled after her, and then turned to Gilan. They talked lightly and comfortably as Gilan ate, discussing his journey and the torrential rainfall that was still wearing off. After Gilan's appetite was quieted, their discussion took a more serious turn.

"So, pigeons, is it? That's how I'm to communicate with Crowley?" Gilan asked curiously.

"Oh, yes. They're quite efficient animals, really." Wardil said animatedly. "Never lose their way, and always come right back. The quickest way to get messages a long way across country, I should say. A round trip from here to Castle Araluen only takes two or three days for them."

Gilan's eyebrows rose at this. "Really? That's amazing. And did my Commandant speak with you concerning the secrecy of this whole thing?"

Wardil nodded. "Oh, yes, Crowley did give me strict instructions to keep everything hush-hush with the rest of Thornby, what with your disguise and all. No, not to worry – this will be the only time you – or anyone else in this inn, for that matter - see me in person for some time. I just need to explain how to leave the messages you want me to send, and how to find the ones I'll be leaving for you from your Commandant."

"Good." Gilan said with a smile. "Explain away."

Wardil drew breath to speak, but stopped suddenly and asked: "You don't think there's anyone… Anyone listening, do you?" He glanced pointedly at the door, his thoughts directing themselves towards the men who had been eavesdropping downstairs.

The question held merit, Gilan knew, but he wasn't worried. Without looking back at the door, he calmly replied: "If there were, I'd have heard them by now."

It was the brief, confident glint in Gilan's eye that reminded Wardil that this man was a King's Ranger, and had all the capabilities that were associated with the title. Wardil didn't doubt the fact that not only could Gilan hear a man eavesdropping outside the door, but that he could probably retrieve, aim, and throw his nearby saxe knife before said eavesdropper even had time to consider his impending death. Though a touch unsettling, the fact made him feel safer.

"Right then." Wardil said, clapping his hands together. "Alright…Where to start? Well, I suppose we'll begin with where the rendezvous will be…" And so began the long explanation of where, how and when messages would be sent back and forth between Thornby and Castle Araluen. The conversation wore long into the night, and as the evening grew darker, the rain picked up again.

Outside, it was dark, cold, and rainy. Water seeped into every unprotected crevice to saturate the area with a palpable chill that sent everyone unlucky enough to be stranded outside into uncontrollable bouts of shivering.

Unaware that he was so close to a familiar friend and ally, Will's lips were turning blue from the night cold. He tried to keep his teeth clenched, but to no avail. He huddled into his ruined cloak, which was muddied, torn, tattered, and soiled more than he thought he'd ever seen it before. He bit back a hiss of pain as he had to shift his injured arm. He didn't want to look at it. The bandage was days old, dirtied with mud, rain and blood, and he could feel the heat radiating off of the infection. He prayed to heaven that it didn't settle into his bones. The last thing that he needed right now was an amputation done by the gruff, butcher-like hands of his captors.

Speaking of his captors, there they were right now.

Gruff, bearded, greasy, tattooed, bulky, and dimwitted – all five of them. Some were taller than others, but they shared most of their physical features in common. The taller, dark-haired man who had originally taken Will captive (Baldor, he'd learned his name was) laughed heartily with his three companions, (Cutler, Huntley, and Tarraf) as they staggered back from the tavern that they'd just left. This left only Ulrich – shortest and quietest of the bunch, with arms like boulders and a permanent sneer engraved onto his face, who'd been standing unfazed in the rain for some time now, watching Will's movements like a hawk.

"Oi, Ulrich!" Cutler shouted louder than needed, which a definite drunken slur in his voice. Ulrich turned, but said nothing. " 'Ows the 'ittol pup doin, eh? Still shiv'ren in the rain?" He laughed at his own metaphor and knelt down to stick his nose into Will's face. "Aww, does the poor wittol pup need 'is pack? Lost, is 'e? Aww, too bad 'e's so dumb and stupid 'e got 'isself separated from 'em, eh?" His laughter echoed off the surrounding buildings, and Will's nostrils filled with the smell of his foul breath. The ranger tried to grimace, but couldn't find the strength to do anything but shiver more deeply and pull his right arm in protectively against his middle.

"Quiet down, Cutler!" Baldor's deeper voice hissed as he elbowed his companion in the side. Baldor had some level of leadership in the group, Will had leaned, and for the most part, the rest of the men differed to his command. "We don't need every last man and his mum in this God forsaken excuse for a town knowing we've got ourselves another 'little pup', as you called him – now get him tied onto the horse and let's get moving. The Doctor and the Sirs ain't gonna be very pleased if we shows up late again."

_Another. _The word rang in Will's mind. He'd long since figured that his abduction had to do with the serial kidnappings that had been working themselves southwest across Araluen's fiefdoms, but each reminder of this fact sent a harrowing chill through Will's spine that wasn't credible to the cold weather. To Will's knowledge, none of the proceeding victims of the abductions had been found.

And then there was the matter of this 'Doctor' that the men kept referring to. Will wasn't really sure why burly, brutish henchmen-for-hire would ever find themselves answerable to a physician, but then again, Will wasn't entirely sure that the title 'Doctor' implied a man who was a healer by trade. As for the 'Sirs', whom Baldor and the rest seemed to esteem just as much as the Doctor, Will assumed they were powerful men of some sorts, possibly rebellions knights, even.

Whoever they were, Will's curiosity and his apprehension had been growing as they seemed to be drawing nearer to wherever these men kept their hideout. The young ranger assumed that they were in the final stretch of their journey, as the men had decided to not only travel in rain, but now also at night, abandoning the comfort and relative safety of Thornby behind them as they plunged into the thick pine forest that lay just behind the pastures of the nearby farms.

Will grunted as Ulrich roughly tossed him up onto the large brown horse and tied him in place. After he'd lost the overall energy to keep up with his captors' demanding pace some two odd days ago, they'd been hauling Will along by horseback in a fashion that was, perhaps, even more uncomfortable than having to jog alongside them. He almost wanted to be delivered into the hands of this Doctor and his Sirs, if only it meant he wouldn't ever have to ride that blasted old battlehorse ever again.

His wishes were granted sooner than he would have expected. It was still dark and damp by the time they reached it. It was a strange choice of headquarters, Will thought, but ingenious. It was a cave – a natural landmark of the land that blended into the background so well that even he, a King's ranger, wouldn't have been looking for it. Hidden by a mass of undergrowth, bushes, and trees that Will's begrudging steed was less than happy about, the cave entrance was understated and ordinary, but once inside, the main chamber spanned out in all directions, bathed in yellowish light by crudely installed torches in the walls. The horse, which was quite uncomfortable underground, fidgeted and grunted until Will was dumped from his back and led back outside by Ulrich. Unfortunately, Will had fallen directly atop his injured arm, and couldn't help the yelp of pain that escaped his lips as the hard floor pressed up on his festering stab wound.

"Well, I see you've brought him back in one piece, at least." A deep, resonating voice said from somewhere towards the back of the chamber. The voice had clear diction with a high tone of authority that suggested that the owner had come from a background of high status. "But you're half a day late." Murmured apologies to the Doctor from Baldor and his crew. The Doctor did not comment, but turned his steely gaze towards the writhing, soaking wet young ranger at his feet. "As for that arm, I'll have to see to that later. I do hope I don't have to cut it off. It'd be a pity." His tone, however, held anything but pity.

Will managed to roll off his arm and relieve the pain somewhat. He pulled the throbbing appendage back to himself, and hissed at the heat and ache of the infection. He heard footsteps approaching, and Carter, Huntley and Tarraff all made clumsy attempts to click their heels in attention and give stiff salutes. Baldor sufficed with a more practiced salute to the approaching figure.

"Well, well, well, what do we have here? Ranger Will Treaty - finally. I suppose you're not much of an apprentice anymore, now are you?"

The voice, with all its teasing, taunting tones, sounded eerily familiar. Will's brow creased, and with great effort, he managed to haul himself around to look at the face. When he saw it, he paled visibly and gulped.

A sinister smile. "Remember me?"


	6. Something Rotten in the Town of Thornby

"Captured?"

"That's what Crowley said in his message, your Majesty." Horace's brow was set in determined lines.

Duncan sighed heavily. "First knights, then Barons, and now those nameless, faceless scoundrels have the nerve to go after a _Ranger?_" The King leant heavily back in his chair. He'd dealt with sticky situations before in his reign, but never had he faced an enemy who was quite as evasive and unpredictable as the one he was facing now. High-profile kidnappings were uncommon – if the culprit was after power alone, assassination was a much more popular and effective means of obtaining it from his victims. This culprit, however, seemed much more interested in keeping his victims alive – if only for a time. Duncan rubbed his temples. None of the dozen or so missing figures had been found yet. There was no telling if they ever would be, and if they were, what condition they'd be in – living or otherwise.

Horace had just received a message via pigeon from the Ranger Commandant, Crowley, giving the simple report: _'Record 4 2 10 – They've taken Will Treaty' _He'd immediately reported it directly to the king, who was now mentally scrambling for a plan of action. The kidnappings were growing out of hand. The capture of Will Treaty would not only serve as another effective abduction, but as a marker to the kidnapper's ability. If they could overcome and control a King's ranger, there was no apparent limit on what they could or couldn't do. They had to be stopped, and soon, before their movements became even more daring. The kidnapping of one of the most famous, capable rangers in Araluen would only serve to fuel the fires of panic and fear among the already frantic nobles.

Horace, for his part, was doing his best to retain his composure in front of the king whilst his insides were screaming at him to go leap to Will's rescue, wherever he may be. He was doing a good job of it, but the nervous burr in his stance and the concerned, aggravated glint in his eye told Duncan that the young knight was just itching to take action against Will's captors. The king allowed a microscopic, mirthless smile to cross his face. Horace was a good knight, and a better friend, but there was no clear-cut course for him to follow in this situation.

"My lord?" Horace said after a while, when the king did not speak for several long minutes. Duncan looked up at him, nodding for him to continue. "Any orders, my lord?"

Duncan thought for a moment and then let out a sigh before saying: "I'll have a message drawn up for you to send back to Crowley as soon as possible." He looked Horace in the eye. "You and Halt will be taking a little excursion northward. I think it's time we settled this mess once and for all."

Horace smiled slightly, but the gesture was devoid of any merriment. His eyes set themselves in determined steel.

"Yes, your Majesty."

* * *

Crowley glanced over the message, nodded to himself, and put the paper in his pocket. He took out another tiny sheet of paper and scribbled a message across it before handing it to the pigeon handler.

"I need this off to the mid-northern field post as soon as you can manage. Orders of King Duncan." Crowley offered the last statement as an incentive for the young man to follow instructions with added promptness and efficiency. The wide-eyed young bird courier nodded quickly and turned to sprint towards the pigeon roosts.

Crowley turned quickly on his heel and marched towards the heart of the castle, his step quick and his gaze set. He climbed the stairs of the keep easily, and managed to intimidate the typically unfazed pair of guards standing on either side of the heavy wood door to the Baron's office. Once inside, he walked straight up to the desk, four sets of eyes turning to look as he entered the room. Wordlessly, he produced the message from his pocket and laid in on the Baron's desk, not in front of the Baron, but rather in front of the small man who sat across from him.

"Pack your gear, Halt; you and Horace are headed north first light tomorrow."

Halt had hardly glanced and the message before he jumped to his feet, immediately turning to leave the room.

"Finally." He said, eager to get going.

Lady Pauline and Alyss watched him go, before the elder of the two turned to Crowley.

"Any orders for ourselves, Crowley?" She asked serenely, knowing that message had come from the king.

The Commandant turned to her and nodded. "Both of you will assist me in sorting through the reports of the abductions to find any common denominators. If we want to find out what on earth is going on, we need to figure out what these kidnappings are all about."

Both couriers nodded.

"And Will?" Alyss asked.

Crowley looked at her. "Halt and Horace will be investigating after Will specifically. Hopefully, his trail hasn't gone completely cold just yet."

"And if it has?" Arald asked realistically.

Crowley sighed, and looked down at the map sprawled across the Baron's desk. His eyes fell on the small, barely noticeable dot near the northern border of Araluen. Above it, an equally as small label read _'Thornby'. _

"If that is the case, it's up to Gilan to get to the bottom of things. All we can do is pray for a miracle."

* * *

In Thornby, Gilan sighed into the cowl of his cloak. The green fabric was dry now, for which he was very grateful. He sat again in his designated seat in the corner of the tavern, shrouded in shadows and altogether very unremarkable amongst the tables that crowded the inn. He'd been watching the comings and goings of the inn for quite some time, now, as well as snooping around the small town for the past four days – in the market, in the streets, in dark alleyways with less than savory characters, but mostly within the walls of the tavern. Like almost any small town, the local public house was the central hub for socialization, relaxation, drinking, and naturally flowing from the three: gossip.

The undercover ranger had heard a great deal of it the past few days, but it was at best a hodge-podge jumble of information, all varying in degrees of questionability. He was growing more and more frustrated both at the situation and at himself for not being able to put together any useful picture of the local happenings.

"Itsa lotta hogwash if ya asks me," one man said from a nearby table. Though bored and frustrated, Gilan attuned his hearing to zero in on the conversation while he lazily stirred honey into his third cup of coffee. "Bein' a doctor don't make him no miracle worker. You won't see me trustin' my hide to 'im anytime soon, that's a fact." The man said confidently.

A slighter-built man sitting across from the speaker then replied in a more timid voice: "But don't you think it's remarkable? The girl's been diseased since she could walk, and just one visit from the doctor, and she's healed completely!" He said, his eyes lighted with belief. The other man, however, sneered skeptically. "Eh, black magic, that is. Dark stuff. Leprosy don't just 'go away' 'cause some old skeleton shows up with a 'cure' all nice and bottled up for her. Rotten con, it is."

"But I knew the girl myself," the other man insisted. "She's been sick for years – and now she's perfectly well! How can that possibly be a scam?"

"Black magic, like I said. But I don't like all this flapjaw 'bout that wizard. Bad luck to talk about such dark stuff. Let's get us another round of drinks."

"Alright, but you're paying your own this time. Yes, excuse me, Barmaid? Two more brandy, please."

Gilan lost interest in the conversation that followed, but he reflected on what the men had said carefully. He'd heard a lot of talk about this 'doctor' over the past week, but so far hadn't been able to lay eyes or ears on the man. The villagers talked about him as if he was a miracle worker – a hero. As far as Gilan could figure, he'd shown up virtually from nowhere and had been curing the townspeople's' ills and sicknesses since he did – seemingly without fail. Gilan had a suspicious feeling about the 'doctor' figure, but so far couldn't see any correlation between it and his mission in Thornby, which was to locate the man – or woman – responsible for the kidnappings plaguing the Araluen nobility. For some reason, Gilan could hardly picture a doctor trudging across country to trap nobles in their sleep only to show up at a small northern backwater to perform amazing feats of medical mastery. He nearly laughed at the thought, but thought the noise might draw unnecessary attention, so sufficed with a hidden smile.

He glanced about the room, his eyes resting for a moment on a large table of rough-looking men, the same men who'd been laughing and joking drunkenly the night he first arrived in Thornby over the pretty-faced barmaid serving drinks. Gilan hadn't seen much of interest in them initially, but the more he watched the gang of thugs, it became clearer that there was more to them than met the eye. Everyone in the town feared them – understandably, as the men were all of considerable size, strength, and temper – but it was something a bit beyond fear. Fear and suspicion, with a touch of something almost like reverence. Gilan still couldn't iron out who or what exactly the men were, but he was determined to find out. Of anyone in the small town, they fit the profile of head-bashing, throat-ringing, knife-wielding, noble-napping brutes, though the young ranger couldn't put together a believable motive for these men to kidnap all those barons and knights.

To add to his confusion, it was hard to garner any intelligible information from their easily distracted conversations. Their voices were slurred and heavily accented, all except one of them, who was only slightly better-spoken than the rest. He was tall and dark headed, and Gilan had picked him out as the unanimously accepted ringleader of their group, though he was just as willing to indulge in excessive mead and vulgar talk as the rest of them. Occasionally, just when Gilan thought he'd overheard an important bit of information on the group, the conversation would drift away before he could put together a clear idea of what was being said.

The whole situation was frustrating to no end, but if nothing else, Halt had always taught Gilan to be patient in the art of eavesdropping. He'd stay unnoticed and low-profile in the town for now, passing himself off as a poor huntsman wintering in the small town for a few weeks. In the meantime, he'd be hard at work tracking down the most wanted criminal in Araluen – whoever that happened to be.

The ranger sighed heavily and rose from his seat, leaving a few coins on the bar to be collected speedily by a grateful tavernkeeper. He gently tugged his cowl deeper around his face and stepped calmly and quietly out the front door. Unnoticed by him as he left, a pair of sharp, dark eyes watched him carefully, like a hunter assessing its prey.


	7. The Fun Begins

A/N: By cinnamony snickerdoodles! I'm actually updating! Sorry it took me so long to get this chapter up. As I write this author's note, I'm still not exactly sure what I want to do in this chapter. Hears to hoping that I'll figure it out. Enjoy! Read and Review, please!

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After a day's ride each, Horace and Halt met up in Whitby fief.

"Where will we be headed?" Horace had asked. Despite Horace's high-ranking station, he naturally showed deference to Halt's experience and authority.

"Seacliff." The ranger had replied flatly. "To look for a trail."

And that was the extent of their conversation. After that, they'd both turned in for the night at the local inn, gathering strength for whatever lay ahead for them in the wild northern reaches.

It was still dark when they left the next morning. The first hour or so was ridden in silence. Horace occasionally glanced down at the statuesque figure riding beside him with a bit of uneasiness in his gut. Even Abelard seemed to catch on to his master's tense mood, and the horse's ears twitched anxiously as they rode. Halt pretended not to notice. Wisely, Horace made no comment on Halt's foul mood.

Perhaps it was because Horace had a foul mood of his own to brood on. Will's abduction had darkened his normally cheerful manner considerably. Whether it had been Will who was captured or someone else, this whole investigation would have been handled with seriousness and urgency, but now that Will was counted among the missing, Horace had a personal score to settle with this abductor, and he was more than ready to unleash all his vengeance on this would-be villain. Though, looking down at his dark-eyed companion, Horace almost felt bad for the sorry lout that had been stupid enough to bring Halt's wrath raining down upon him.

Almost.

In the meantime, he couldn't help himself but to sit there and brood away at dark thoughts of revenge in the welcoming silence. However, his sorrows were alleviated temporarily when Halt finally decided to talk.

"We'll ask around the fief and see if anyone's seen anything suspicious. After we get a lead, we'll follow it north – we already know they're based there."

Horace nodded, and made quick to reply – anything to keep Halt talking and relieve this horrid silence. "I suppose we might ask the Baron?" He regretted the question as soon as the words left his mouth. Halt turned a poisonous glare up at the young knight.

"No, we won't." He said dangerously. "The idiot had better be thankful for the fact, too. Crowley's assured me that he doesn't know anything. And though I'd love more than anything to throttle that pompous prat with my bare hands, I'm not going to waste my time on him. Duncan can take care of that."

Horace's eyebrows rose. "King Duncan?"

Halt nodded. "Aye. Barons are usually held accountable by fief's ranger, but, well…" Halt turned towards Horace with that rather frightening glint in his eye again. "Ergell isn't exactly notable for keeping up with his ranger, now is he? I have a feeling that he'll be getting an earful from Duncan and Crowley, once they can spare the time. He'd better be glad I don't have the time to deliver my… Advice." Halt moved his knees against Abelard's side slightly, and the horse obediently broke into a soft canter, leaving Kicker and his rider behind.

Horace regarded Halt with a look of slight terror, and nudged Kicker to follow after him. The knight took some care not to get too close to the small man. No telling what could happen when Halt was angry.

Just after dark, Seacliff castle came into sight. Unfortunately for the poor old ferry worker, separate trips had to be made for Halt and Horace; the fact owed to the massive weight of Horace's battlehorse, Kicker. The larger horse looked to his small, shaggy brother across the shore as the ferryman heaved at the towing chain. 'Horses aren't meant to ride on water.' His alarmed look seemed to say. Abelard shot the horse equivalent of a snicker back at the larger animal, and Horace couldn't help but laugh to himself. Kicker braced his thick legs steadily apart, rolling an eye around to peer at the surrounding water fearfully. Huge, powerful, and trained for battle he may be, but Horace's faithful steed wasn't very fond of boats. Even after weeks up in a Skandian wolfship with no incident, Kicker was suitably horrified by the things. Once at the shore, Kicker was more than happy to trot up on to solid ground, though he was still quite shaken up by the ride taken to get there.

_'Now that wasn't so bad,'_ Abelard tossed his head at the other horse. _'you were being quite a little foal about the whole thing.'_

Kicker snorted loudly, leaving the humans only guessing at what on earth he'd said in reply.

Horace paid the ferryman extra for his trouble, and they went on their way. It was dark, but they rode out to Will's cabin instead of the local inn. It was too dark to do any real tracking, though Halt did try before Horace insisted that he come inside for dinner. Halt nodded approvingly at the squeaky door hinges as he entered the cabin. Well, there was no way that Will had been caught off guard in his own home. Off to one side, Halt saw a pile of discarded clothes lying on the floor. Frowning, he picked an article and sniffed at the fabric. Riverwater. Had Will been in the river when he was attacked? Halt grit his teeth in annoyance. It was too dark to investigate outside right now.

Thankfully, Horace intervened conveniently with a savory smelling bowl of supper.

Horace had thrown together a stew when they'd arrived, and they ate this in silence, along with some bread. After they were done, Horace looked about the cabin. He'd never been inside a Ranger's cabin before.

"I suppose we'll spend the night here?" Horace asked. When Halt nodded affirmation, Horace stood. "Alright, then. I'll just lay my bedroll out here, on the couch-"

"No need." Halt told him. "There are two bedrooms down the hall."

Horace looked at him. "Two? Why would a ranger need two bedrooms?"

Halt shrugged. "Standard build for a ranger's cabin. One for the ranger, one for the apprentice." As he gave the explanation, Halt vaguely wondered if he'd ever get to see the day when Will would take on his own apprentice. Though now, with Will captured and off who-knew where, in the hands of very dangerous and deadly men, that possibility seemed to be dwindling day by day… Halt stopped himself quickly, mortified at himself that he would think such a way. He rose abruptly in frustration and went further back into the cabin, choosing Will's usual bedroom for himself.

Horace watched him go in confusion, but the confusion soon melted into pity. He knew how Halt was tearing himself up over Will. It was like Skandia all over again, and Halt and Horace were traveling up through Gallica. Except this time, they hadn't the slightest clue where to begin. Horace sighed as he rose from his seat. Tomorrow, he told himself, they would find something. Tomorrow, they'd be one day closer to finding Will.

Or at least, that's what he told himself.

* * *

He woke up in pain. Before he could stop himself, he groaned loudly as the pain in his arm grew stronger as he woke. Oh, for heaven's sake, they'd sawed it off. He knew they had. How else could his arm hurt so badly? He didn't want to look at it – he was sure he'd throw up if he did.

"Sir - Sir! He's awake!" A young voice called out. Oh, joy. He had company.

Will tried to open his eyes to see the approaching captors, and after a struggle, he managed to focus on his surroundings. He was lying on a cold stone slab – was that a spider in the corner? There was a meager burlap cloth draped over him, somewhat resembling a moth-eaten blanket, and Will found his arms to be folded across his middle.

His _arms! _He still had both of them intact! A wave of relief washed over him, but it was short-lived. A snarling face came into view, and Will's gut gave a nervous turn. The man's words from the previous night rang in his head

"_Remember me?"_

The question remained: Did he? Will wasn't entirely sure. He was positive that he'd seen this man before. He was sure of it. The voice tone, the hair, the eyes… But he just couldn't place it. And he felt that his failing memory wasn't helping his situation one bit. The man came closer to him, and Will tried to speak, but his voice was little more than a croak.

"I… I know you…" He tried to say.

The man snarled at him. "Aye, you'd _better _remember _me_. The doctor tells me you need to sleep some more before we er… _Speak _with you. Maybe his remedy will even help you remember." The man laughed darkly.

Suddenly, a hand came down over Will's nose and mouth, smothering his face in a strange-smelling cloth. Will realized what was happening, but he was helpless to do anything about it. He struggled against the man's stronger grip, but he could already feel the drug running through his system. The last thing he heard before he lost consciousness was an eerily familiar, but just unrecognizable peel of laughter.

* * *

When he woke again, he was shirtless and shoeless, tied to a chair with his hands bound behind him. His vision swam maddeningly as he opened his eyes, trying to see something – anything.

"Ah, you're finally awake. We were beginning to wonder." A deep voice said coldly. It took Will a moment of thought, but he eventually recognized it as the Doctor's voice.

"I suppose your arm is well again. Those idiot brigands didn't do you a lot of good, but I think I've managed to repair the damage done." He sighed in exasperation. "I do hate it when those buffoons bring back damaged merchandise, after all the times I've warned them…"

Will wasn't sure the way he liked the way that this man used the word 'merchandise'.

The Doctor sighed in exasperation. "But it's no matter. You're well enough for now." He set out a variety of tools on a nearby table, and arranged them carefully as he spoke. "I'd like to go ahead with your treatment right away, but unfortunately, I've already promised my friends that I'd let them speak with you first. A pity, really. I rarely come across a specimen so fit as you are. I hate to let all that strength go to waste, but…" He sighed, "the Sirs pay well for the privilege of seeing to you before I. They've been waiting for you in particular for quite some time, actually. They're just _dying _to speak with you." The man finished laying out his toolkit and left the room, his parting words stringing the air with tension.

Somehow, the man's tone didn't make Will feel any better about his situation. He didn't feel that ropes and chains were all that necessary for merely 'speaking' with someone.

Footsteps sounded on the stone path outside the chamber. Will closed his eyes, focusing. Three pairs of feet, their footfalls staggered somewhat. All of them were tall and large, he could tell, but they carried themselves a bit too sloppily for proper warriors. He waited. The three men drew closer, their footfalls louder, until they were just outside the doorway. Will opened his eyes.

"Good to see you again, Will Treaty." The man from the previous night said, his yellow grin stayed for a few seconds, but soon faded to a grim scowl. "Or not so good."

The second man, this one an inch or two shorter and stockier than the first, came forward. "I've been waiting a long time for this one." He said. "Glad to see me again, Will, you little sneaker?" The man tossed Will's head violently as he passed, and the ranger was helpless to stop him.

"I'm sorry," Will said truthfully as the third man entered the room, "I don't know who you are; surely there's been some mistake."

"Don't know who we are?" The third man, darker-haired than other two, said, "Are you hearin' this? He doesn't remember!"

The first man, blue-eyed and fair-haired, bored his eyes into Will. "Oh, he'll remember alright. He'll remember. Won't you, idiot?"

And with that, he sent a cringe-worthy backhand smacking across Will's face. Spots danced in front of Will's eyes for a moment, and he had to wait for the ringing to stop before he could hear what his tormentors were saying.

"…Remember how you humiliated us? Don't you remember how you outcast us? Our families? How you ruined our lives?" The word 'lives' was emphasized by a forceful punch to Will's gut, and he tried to curl in on himself, but with his hands tied behind him, the reflex was made incredibly painful.

Will knew that he didn't remember. But he also knew that if he didn't soon, he'd end up dead.

"Don't… remember…" He gasped out, "Please…" He was going to plead for mercy, but at that moment, one of the men grabbed a handful of Will's hair and yanked his head backwards.

"My name is Alda." He hissed at the ranger. "Does that ring any bells?" He pulled harshly at Will's hair.

_Alda. _The name struck some chord in his memory, but he couldn't place it. After a tense moment, for however much he didn't want to do it, Will had to shake his head 'no'. Without another word, the man let go of his hair and landed a well-aimed punch on Will's still sore arm – right where the stab wound had only recently healed over. The scream that was ripped from Will's throat only egged the other men on.

_Alda. Alda. _A punch to his spine. Cringe. _Remember, Will, you idiot! _A swipe across his shoulders. _Alda. Who is Alda? _Scratches on his cheek – a black eye now forming. _Don't remember… Have to remember… Who are these men? _A hand around his throat, tightening quickly. _There are three of them…_ _Alda… Alda… _And then it dawned. Will's eyes widened at the men.

Alda_, Bryn, and Jerome. _He looked from one man to the next. The battleschool apprentices. The second year cadets who had tortured Horace in his first year – the ones who had beaten, tormented, and bullied him. The ones who had attacked Will and defied Halt – the ones who had resented his victory over the wild boar and his friendship with Horace. The ones who had been cast out of the fief because of what he, Halt and Horace had done. They were out for revenge. They'd tracked him down. They'd captured him.

And now, he was at their complete mercy.

In that moment, Alda saw the recognition and horror in Will's eyes, and he smiled with a twisted satisfaction.

"Ah, the little sneaker remembers." He sneered. "And now," his tone sent chills up Will's spine, "Now that he remembers, the Sirs can teach the new pup how to properly respect his _masters._" Alda turned to his companions. "Isn't that right, sirs?"

Bryn and Jerome let their wicked grins grow wider. Alda turned back to Will, his yellow teeth glittering disgustingly in the torchlight.

"This is where the real fun begins."


	8. A Storm is Brewing

**A/N**: Alright. Two straight weeks without enough time to sit down and write, and I FINALLY found an evening without any chores, homework, or functions to go to so that I can just sit down and write, like I've been meaning to for the past weeks. Really, I've had this chapter planned out for FOREVER, but I'm just now writing it. I really need to get my butt in gear and get updates up sooner.

ANYWAY.

Now I'm only a semi-hypocrite, **Lady Maeror**. :P

Enjoy the eighth chapter! I have another little surprise twist in store for y'all. Hope y'all like it!

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As Gilan left the tavern, he got the strange, familiar sensation that someone was watching him. He took an unplanned turn down a narrow street, but whoever it was that was following him didn't leave. The disguised ranger didn't have to strain to hear his pursuer. Amongst the semi-busy streets of a small town center, the footsteps were indistinguishable to any normal passer-by. But a to a ranger, they were disgustingly obvious.

He had been planning to fetch Blaze and ride out to collect any new messages Wardil had recieved for him, but this unexpected company complicated things. Instead, he headed off down one of the main streets of the town market, bustling with mid-morning customers, hoping to shake the follower. However, the footsteps continued. It was about at that time that Gilan realized that there was more than one set of footfalls following him – there were three, to be exact. An outmatched fight, for a normal man.

But a ranger could never be considered a normal man, even disguised smartly as Gilan was.

Gilan set his jaw and came to a decision, pulling up his green wool cowl with a shrugged flourish, setting his hand to rest at the hilt of his longsword, beneath which was sheathed his saxe. When he'd taken on his guise, Gilan had sacrificed his normal bow, arrows, and throwing dagger for the less-conspicuous weapons of his sword and trusted saxe – which bore a misleading resemblance to a simple hunting knife.

His heart gave a reactionary shot of adrenaline as he readied himself for what could turn out to be a skirmish. He could feel it rush through his limbs, his nerves exited, his vision enhanced. His hearing heightened to focus in on the footsteps, and he turned abruptly into a dark alley between large buildings. He rushed to one corner and wrapped himself in his cloak. It was not the normal camouflage of a ranger, but when Crowley had been outfitting him with all he needed, the dark wool fabric had been picked specifically for its tendency to blend in to practically anything in the presence of darkness. It was this very tendency that now gave Gilan the advantage of concealment and thus, surprise.

His stalkers entered the alley, and paused for a moment. Gilan took this moment to study them. He immediately recognized them – they were the slack-tongued, heavy-drinking thugs that had been frequenting the tavern since Gilan had arrived. There was a tall, dark haired man leading the three men. He had keen blue eyes that might have been handsome if it weren't for the greasy hair, long scar, huge broken nose and uneven snarl. The other two men behind him glanced over at their leader with a question in their gaze. One of them was bald and heavily scarred, with a gold ring hanging from one earlobe. The other man was considerably younger than both of his friends. Grease and grime smudged his fair features in blotches, and there was a scraggly mess of hair on his chin that might grow into a beard one day.

"Where'd he go?" The young one asked.

"Quiet!" The leader hissed.

Cautiously, (but none too quietly for the fact) they advanced.

Gilan checked his breathing and mentally rehearsed his actions. He watched them with a calm intensity, like a cat watching a mouse. _Three more steps. Two. One._

And then, before any of them knew exactly what was happening, Gilan had unsheathed his sword and swung it in an arc close to the ground, slicing at the calves of the bald man and the young one. He shoved them both aside, and they promptly fell in a mix of confusion and pain. They weren't crippled, but their injuries would be painful. This all happened within a matter of seconds, but when Gilan rounded on the leader, the other man was ready.

The look on his face would have been intimidating, if he actually knew how to use the dagger he was holding. Gilan danced about him a bit, assessing his fighting skills. He was subsequently unimpressed. This man moved sloppily and handled his weapon crudely. His blocks were late and open, and he gripped the dagger hilt so tightly that Gilan wondered how his hand wasn't cramping. Once he saw that this man posed no challenge to him, Gilan cut in easily and cornered the man against the wall, producing a razor-shap saxe seemingly out of nowhere to pin the man's neck up against cold stone. Gilan stuck his face only centimeters form the other man's.

"You've been following me for the past quarter hour." Gilan told him harshly. "And if you like having your head attached to your shoulders, you're going to tell me why."

The man, once fierce, now cornered, looked helplessly over at his friends, who were beginning to stagger to their feet. Without wavering his gaze a millimeter, Gilan swung his sword around one-handed to threaten the men that were now making for him. Both stopped in their tracks.

"Now." Gilan prodded, with a slight pressure from his knife.

The man's neck bobbled as he swallowed against Gilan's saxe, and then, to Gilan's masked surprise, he smiled, and said something that Gilan had never been expecting.

"Even better than we'd hoped. Nice to meet you, Gilan Davidson."

Gilan reeled internally to cover his surprise. Years of practice kept him from letting the other men see his shock. How on _earth _did this man know his name? Did he know his identity, as well?

"Who are you, and how do you know my name?" He demanded at length. He fought to keep his voice devoid of desperation or astonishment – it was a demand, and a demand only.

"Baldor." The man told him. "And those are Ulrich and Tarraf." He gestured vaguely and towards his injured comrades. "And I know your name from a, ah… friend of mine."

"Oh, really. What 'friend' might that be? Because if you don't have an awfully good reason for following me, you might just have to get to know _my_ friend a bit closer than you'd like." Gilan pressed his saxe against Baldor's neck meaningfully. Inside, Gilan was preparing himself for whatever Baldor was about to say. He had absolutely no idea how, why or when this man had acquired the information of Gilan's name. He didn't know if this man knew that he was a ranger, or if this man was going off of false information, but deep in Gilan's gut, something told him that his entire mission was hinged upon his ability to play along with whatever story this man gave him.

"In due time, friend," Baldor said boldly. This man had some gall, talking like that to the one who had the knife. "But first, I'd like to hear you tell me how on earth you escaped from that ranger. What'd he get ya for? Murder? Robbery? Smugglin'? But somehow, you managed to do what no one I know has. You escaped."

Gilan stared blankly at him. So apparently, Gilan was not only a criminal, but a criminal who had escaped from the custody of a ranger. Briefly, Gilan wondered who in the world had told the man such a backwards idea, but he played along anyway. He could use this man's ignorance to his advantage.

"Perhaps all three." He said. "But until you tell me _who told you, _I'm not saying anything. So unless you want me to slit your throat right now – start talking."

Again, Gilan fought to keep his cool and go along with his newfound identity as it was revealed to him. All the while, he was preparing himself for whatever this man might say next. However, nothing could have prepared him for what he was about to hear.

"Well, I heard it straight from the ranger's mouth. Naturally, you'll be the first to remember Will Treaty."

Gilan's heart leapt into his ears at that, and he was sure his eyes widened at the words. However, Baldor interpreted this differently than it actually was.

"Ah, yes. I suppose you're impressed I actually managed to capture him. I had a little help, I must admit. But that's not the reason I've been following you. I have a difficult task set to me, and I need some help. You seem to have a rather impressive reputation… And you've turned up just in time to help me." He paused for breath. "What I'm saying is that I have a job offer for you."

Gilan hesitated. Now that he had more or less the full story, he took some time to put on his new mask and calm his racing heart from this critical development in his mission. Will had been captured. Will Treaty, one of his best friends and closest colleagues. He'd been taken captive right under Gilan's nose. How, why, and when, Gilan didn't know – but he did know that he had to do something about it. This criminal thought that Gilan had a personal vendetta against Ranger Treaty. And so, Gilan would – if only to find his friend and see him to safety. He mentally put on a criminal persona. Greedy. Rogue. Unafraid. Bold.

"What's in it for me?" Gilan the murder/burgler/smuggler asked.

Baldor smiled mirthlessly. "Well, so long as you've really got what it takes, a large amount of gold." He paused for dramatic effect. Gilan was impressed by the man's unwavering negotiations skills, considering that he was pinned to a wall with a knife. "And the privilege to take revenge on Will Treaty.

_Revenge._ Gilan wasn't sure if he was supposed to like the idea or not, so he went with his gut feeling. His gaze unblinking and unmoving, he removed his saxe from Baldor's throat, and an involuntary wave of relief swept over the dark haired man.

"You have a deal." Gilan said. He shook Baldor's hand, and held on firmly for a moment when Baldor tried to pull his hand away, so that the other man looked back up into Gilan's eyes.

Gilan's glare was dangerous. _You will not be going back on your word. _It said. Baldor returned it, eye to eye.

_Neither will you._

_

* * *

_

Halt and Horace had been traveling for two days before they'd reached a town large enough to support a public house. The _Dancing Mare _wasn't a very busy pub, but it had a spare room and warm food – even if the coffee was lacking against Halt's standards. After a fitful sleep in a dry, albeit a bit dusty room, the two were sitting downstairs in the taproom for breakfast. While Horace scarfed down his high stack of hotcakes in record time, Halt was listening to what they'd really come for – gossip.

Though the strange snorffling noises he made while he ate could be annoying, Halt was thankful for Horace's present company. The locals at Pellsford seemed unusually wary of visitors, and had it been only Halt passing through, they might have clammed up at the sight of the dark-cloaked figure. However, with an innocent, honest looking fellow like Horace in Halt's company, the common-fold travelers with strange cloaks and unusual weapons looked infinitely less interesting. In fact, Halt picked up no uneasiness in the customers as he unobtrusively eavesdropped on the local proceedings.

There was talk of the weather, of course. A few seasoned farmers spoke of an impending storm, and Halt made note to find a sheltered place to camp the following night. Apparently, the miller's daughter had recently married the son of a well-off merchant, and would be leaving Pellsford with her new husband soon. It also seemed that Morilan (a goat famer) made some of the county's finest cheese. In other news, a band of hooligans had ransacked poor old lady Thatcher's stables, and Mr. Ringer's prize donkey had gone missing.

Halt sighed to himself. There was nothing worth hearing here. All local news – peasant talk. Nothing truly interesting worth knowing.

He glanced over at Horace, who looked quite satisfied, and then down at the now-clean plate that had earlier been piled high with hotcakes, bacon and eggs. Halt glanced back up at Horace and squinted at him. _Where does he put it all? _He wondered to himself. He shook his head and looked away, sipping at his coffee. Horace, who hadn't noticed the ranger's scrutiny, only looked up when Halt called to him a moment later.

"Go pay the innkeeper. It's time we move on."

Horace nodded and did as he was told, giving a few coins to the innkeeper before he gave a special tip to the motherly cook who'd made him the delicious batch of hotcakes. She blushed at the rare kindness, and he smiled warmly at her, lifting her spirits higher than they'd been in months. After the young knight left, she went about her daily chores with a slight glow in her face, whistling to herself cheerily.

As soon as Horace was mounted up, the young knight and the ranger set off northward. In the distance, dark thunderclouds gathered, and Horace knew they'd have to find a safe place to rest that night. Next to him, Halt mulled over more foreboding thoughts. The storm was more than just weather, he knew. It was a shadow of things to come. This whole mission was a giant race against time, and soon, they would be grasping to conquer a phantom enemy – a passing shadow and a rumor. With only fleeting knowledge and sheer determination on their side, Halt and Horace were heading straight into the dragon's lair. The final match was here. The board was set, the pieces were in place, and now, it was their turn to move.

A storm was brewing.

* * *

**A/N**: Ooooh, what will Baldor and his gang of thugs make Gilan do? Smuggle drugs? Kill someone? Go door to door selling cookies? Who knows? (ME!) With any luck, y'all will find out in the next chapter.

R&R, please! Critiques are love.


	9. A Complicated Situation

**A/N:** And Gilan's problems steadily compound! Enjoy the ninth chapter!

* * *

Will was bleeding. His shirt was soaked in sticky blood in brown-crimson splotches in all different areas. His nose was battered and bleeding, his eyes were streaming with dried tears. His hair was a matted, sweaty mess atop his head, and the ropes that bound his wrists cut into his flesh painfully. He dare not move, lest he make the pain worse. At first, he'd screamed and groaned in protest against the pain, but eventually, he'd learned that it was a useless action. After hours of incessant torture, he'd numbed himself to the pain as much as he could and ceased his useless movements. Now, the only movement he made was the shallow rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.

Distantly, he wondered when they would come back for more. Could he take it again? He'd have to. He'd tried to numb himself to the pain, but it only worked to a point. Despite any psychological tricks he might want to play on his body, pain was still pain, and his aching, ripped body would hurt just as horribly the next time as it did the first time. Fists flying, nails scratching, elbows breaking. Will wasn't sure if he had any ribs left to break, or any skin left to tear. But each time Alda, Bryn, and Jerome came back, they'd prove him wrong by finding some spot of untouched flesh and punishing him for it, tearing and punching at him until he was completely spoiled of any healthy flesh. He was too tired to fight. Too tired to cry. Too tired and beaten and battered and torn to even think or hope for an escape.

A gate opened. Will couldn't have reacted even if he'd wanted to.

"Oh, for heaven's sake." An unconcerned voice said. "I told them not to break the ribs – oh, what a waste." With an annoyed type of sigh, the Doctor strode over to Will and began to poke at his torso. Despite wanting desperately not to, Will found himself whimpering and yelping as the man pressed against his broken ribs roughly.

The Doctor sighed before producing his medical bag, removing a tin and opening it. A strong aroma wafted up to Will's nose, and despite the blood that clogged his sense of smell, he could detect a distinct, familiar odor coming from the poultice that the Doctor was now rubbing against his bruised sides.

For the first time in a long, long time, Will was almost glad to recognize the scent of warmweed. It meant that his pain would go away, if only for a little while, and he could rest.

"This should keep you quiet for now," the Doctor said in an annoyed tone, as though he were talking to a misbehaving dog. "We'll have to wait until tomorrow to begin your treatment, I suppose." The Doctor sighed. "Idiot buffoons. I've told them a thousand times not to damage you, and yet off they decide to go off and break every bone in your body." Another sigh. "And so clumsy about it, too. They're horrid fighters. It's no wonder that they have to get Baldor and his men to bring in their targets. Goodness knows they couldn't do it themselves."

After that, the Doctor fell silent. Will worried for a few seconds over what the Doctor might mean by 'treatment', but after a few moments of thought, he found he really didn't care. All that mattered right now was that wonderful, familiar numbing feeling that laced itself through his skin, taking away all the pain and replacing it with a tingling warmth. He let his eyelids flutter closed. By the time the Doctor left, Will was blissfully unconscious.

* * *

"What is it that you want me to do?" Gilan asked, fiddling with the sharp tip of his saxe. He glared pointedly over his brow at Baldor. After having acquiring his rather unexpected new identity, Gilan had taken to the role easily, and now looked every bit the murdering, scheming, villainous scum that Baldor and his men supposed he was.

"Well," Baldor said, trying to overcome intimidation, "The _real _job will come later. First, we'll see if you can actually do what we need you to."

"Oh?" Gilan asked uninterestedly, now picking at his fingernails casually with his knife, "And what would that be?"

Baldor shifted his feet, and Gilan almost wanted to laugh at how nervous this criminal had become in Gilan's presence. "Well," Baldor started, glancing for a moment at the two men he'd brought with him, "I've been thinking about it, and I've a task to set to you. If you complete it to my liking, we'll give you a pay of three hundred gold. There will be five thousand if you complete the work we set to you after that."

Gilan raised one eyebrow and studied the men carefully for a long moment. After some 'thought', he nodded once. "Real gold – no promises."

"Of course."

"Right." Gilan said. He sheathed his knife and crossed his arms before looking expectantly at Baldor. "What is it that you need me to do?" He asked.

"Well," Baldor fidgeted again, "A few nights ago, you were at the Blag Stag Inn." The man said. Gilan motioned for him to continue. "You spoke with a man you called 'Wardil', is that right?"

Gilan slowly nodded. He wasn't sure that he like where this was going.

"To see if you're up for the job, we want you to bring him to us. Alive."

Gilan studied them. His heart was thumping out of his chest as he considered the question. He didn't want to drag Wardil into all of this if it wasn't absolutely necessary. The pigeon handler was a good, peaceable man, and he didn't want him getting into any trouble.

"What do you want with that useless lout?" Gilan threw out experimentally, feigning unconcern.

Baldor shrugged. "Nothing, really. We don't need him for anything – we just need to see if you're our man or not."

Gilan thought about this for a moment, and then nodded. "Very well." He straightened and pulled his green hood over his face, clouding his face in shadow. "I'll have him back here tonight. After dark."

"You can nab him that fast?" One of the other men had to ask.

Gilan turned to glare dangerously at him through his cowl. "Faster than you know." He turned to Baldor. "Don't be late." He said, before disappearing off into the alleyways.

Gilan's trek to Wardil's cabin was cautious, to say the least. Baldor had (predictably) sent out three henchmen to follow Gilan's movements through the forest, and Gilan had felt obligated to lead them on a merry chase through the dense woods and sufficiently confuse and muddle their tiny little brains before shaking them off his trail. Once this was all over, he didn't want any reckless criminals knowing of Wardil's home and deciding to pay the poor man a visit. Once he'd found the small cottage, Gilan had circled the house five times to ensure that he was the only visitor, and then he'd snuck up to the front door and knocked.

A petite brunette woman answered the door, bobbing a little toddler on her hip while she held the door. Gilan pulled back his cowl and smiled encouragingly at her, so as not to frighten her.

"Is Wardil home?" He asked. She managed a timid smile, and nodded.

"Wardil, dear," She called, "There's someone here to see you." She turned and smiled at Gilan, and motioned for him to come sit in their living area.

"I must apologize for the mess," She said, kicking away several children's toys from the floor and replacing a throw blanket onto the sofa. The home was quaint and small, but cozy and well lived-in.

Gilan smiled at her. "No, not at all." The home's small rooms and worn furniture reminded him somewhat of his days in Halt's cabin. "I'm Gilan, by the way," Gilan told her, realizing his bad manners. "Ranger Gilan."

"Oh," the woman said, eyebrows raised. "Yes, Wardil told me a Ranger was in town." She frowned a bit deeper. "Though I must admit he didn't say he was expecting you."

Gilan nodded gravely. "Yes, well, there are a few plans that have changed recently…" He didn't get to finish the thought, as Wardil stepped into the room.

"Ranger Gilan!" He said, surprised. "It's, um… Well, good to see you." He said awkwardly, coming nearer, "But, eh… Aren't you supposed to be staying… You know, away?" Wardil asked, not unkindly. His face was riddled up in a confused look.

Gilan nodded. "Yes, well, there are some things that have changed as of late." He said.

Suddenly, Wardil became exited as he remembered something. "Oh!" He exclaimed "Did you – no, wait, you couldn't have… A message just came in from Commandant Crowley, Sir!" Wardil's eyes were wide.

Gilan was attentive. "Yes?"

"Yes, yes, he said… He said that there's a ranger that's been captured, sir – Will Treaty!"

Gilan's shoulders fell. "Oh, yes." He said, not quite disappointed, "Yes, I already knew that."

Wardil looked confused. "What? What do you mean? How did you know?"

Gilan sighed, and looked from Wardil, to Wardil's wife, and their small son. He motioned to one of the empty seats.

"Perhaps you'd better sit down. It's a bit of a long story."

* * *

An hour or so later, Gilan had explained most of the details of what had transpired with Baldor and his crew.

"A _criminal?" _Wardil asked incredulously.

Gilan nodded. "Indeed. I'm not exactly comfortable with the whole thing."

"Well I wouldn't be, either." The bird handler told him.

"I do hope Ranger Treaty is alright." Rochelle, Wardil's wife, said. Wardil looked at her sympathetically and took her hand.

"He's a capable man. He'll figure something out." Gilan told them, but as he said the words, he wondered if he was telling the truth.

"There was another part of the message," Wardil said suddenly, "Crowley says that King Duncan is sending Ranger Halt and Sir Horace to follow Will's trail north. Did you know that part of the message, too?" Wardil inquired.

Gilan straightened, shaking his head. "No, I didn't." He pondered the idea for a moment, before murmuring, "This could be good. I could use a bit of help scouring the area."

There was a small silence. Then,

"I need you to send a message back to Crowley explaining the situation, Wardil." Gilan said. "He needs to know that I won't be able to receive or send messages from him from here on out. Let him know that I received both of his messages."

Wardil nodded. "I'll get to it right away." He said. "And I suppose you won't be talking with me, anymore?"

"No, for safety's sake. Lord knows what I'm getting myself into, but you don't need to be associated with me any further than needed."

Wardil nodded. "Alright. Well, do you have any final instructions? Anything you need?"

"Just lay low." He told them both. "Don't go into town unless you need to, until I inform you the danger has passed." After he said this, Gilan pursed his lips in thought. He glanced at Wardil's son, bouncing on Rochell's lap, and after weighing the risks, looked back up to Wardil, who was still watching the Ranger expectantly. "But first, I need you to do me a favor. You're not going to like it," Gilan warned.

Wardil shrugged nonchalantly. "What is it you have in mind?"

"Well, I suppose I'll have to give you few pointers about acting, first." Gilan told him

Wardil frowned. "Acting?"

"Yes, acting – going along with a script." Gilan squinted at him. Despite himself, the Ranger found his lips upturned in a mischievous kind of smile. "Wardil, how do you feel about being kidnapped?"

* * *

It was nightfall. Gilan had been waiting for nearly an hour when Baldor and his men finally showed up, shuffling along noisily. One carried a torch, and he started violently when Gilan was suddenly illuminated by the firelight. Most of his face was shadowed by the cowl of his cloak, but the men could see his mouth move as he spoke.

"You're late." Was all he said.

"Some of my men weren't accounted for!"

"What, they lose their way to the tavern?"

Baldor glared. "They were lost out in the woods." He said meaningfully.

"Oh, yes," Gilan said, turning his head to look at the men whom he recognized as the fellows that had been tailing him through the forest to Wardil's house, "Well, the next time you decide to keep tabs on my whereabouts, I suggest you send more competent scouts. It was easy enough to lose them – even easier to hear them." Gilan slurred.

Baldor glared at him. "Those are my best men! How could you have seen them?"

Gilan grinned back at him grimly. "Well, eluding a king's Ranger doesn't exactly come with rudimentary skills like those," Gilan told him. "And I'm not inclined to share my secrets. You should learn from this, Baldor; I work alone. I advise you keep your noisy, slack-skilled men off my tail from now on." He'd turned his dark gaze onto the dark-haired leader, who now shirked away.

"But now," Gilan's tone changed to a more business-like voice, "that's not what we came to discuss, is it?" The Ranger in disguise turned and drug out a man, bound and tied, who had been standing by Gilan's horse. A burlap sack had been put over the man's head, and Gilan reached forward now and removed it, shoving the man roughly forward towards Baldor. Wardil, gagged and bound at the ankles, promptly fell to the ground, grunting and whimpering in fear and protest.

"Wardil – the man you asked for. I suppose he is alive enough for your liking?" Gilan said dryly, tossing the burlap to one side.

Baldor studied the terrified bird handler suspiciously, and then looked back up at Gilan. "How do I know this is the man I asked for?"

Gilan scoffed. "Well, you should do your research before you ask for someone." He stepped forward, and drug Wardil's face up by his curly head of hair. "Wardil, pigeon handler. He's an old hermit who lives alone up in the woods. Wasn't hard to find. Wasn't hard to capture." He looked down at Wardil's terrified features for a moment, and then shoved the man's head back towards the ground. Wardil let out a yelp as he did so. "Pathetic, really." Gilan concluded. He looked back up at Baldor. "Good enough for you?"

Baldor looked thoughtful, and then, he nodded. "Good enough." He affirmed. Baldor then stepped forward, and drew his dagger.

"Well, we can't very well have him yapping up a storm and giving away our identities," He said, kneeling down to grab at Wardil's jacket collar."

"Wait," Gilan suddenly said. Baldor look up at him, knife at Wardil's throat, with a question in his eye. Gilan's heart beat deafeningly loud in his chest. He couldn't let Wardil get hurt – he'd given his word. Thinking quickly, he looked at Baldor darkly. "Let me take care of him." He proposed.

Wardil, staying in character, widened his eyes further and shook his head violently, as if this new proposition was far worse than the first. Baldor didn't say anything, but rose from where he was kneeling. Gilan swooped forward and grabbed a wad of Wardil's shirt and dragged him up to a semi-standing position.

"Have my money by tomorrow morning." Gilan said, before dragging Wardil away.

"Wait," Baldor called, "What will you do to him?" He asked curiously.

The glare that Gilan sent back at the man was dark and dangerous, and left no room for discussion. "I'm going to take care of him." Gilan said, before dragging Wardil off into the night.

* * *

Hours later, Wardil and Gilan were laughing heartily over the evening's events as Rochelle cleaned the mud off her husband's face.

"You Rangers can be truly terrifying when you want to be." He said.

Gilan smiled. "You did a pretty good job at playing the poor innocent captive, I must say. I could ask Crowley to recruit you for more undercover jobs, if you like." Gilan offered, but Wardil was shaking his head before the Ranger finished

"It was an exciting adventure," Wardil admitted, "But I've already got an obligation here." He looked lovingly over at his wife, who smiled.

Gilan nodded. "I understand. Well then, it's been wonderful working with you. Thank you for all your help, Wardil. And be safe, both of you." The Ranger stood.

"We will. I'll get your message off to Crowley later today." Wardil assured him. Gilan nodded.

"Thank you. Until next time." He nodded at the couple standing by the door and pulled his hood up over his face. Leaving his cheerful personality at Wardil's doorstep, Gilan the Ranger became Gilan the Mercenary once more, slinking off through the bushes towards the quiet town of Thornby.

* * *

The next morning, Gilan met with Baldor and his men in the alleyway that was now their designated drop-spot. All of the men studiously did not ask what had become of poor Wardil, Gilan noticed. Fiddling with the jingling pouch of the promised gold, Gilan regarded Baldor with an even gaze.

"Did I pass your 'test', then?" He asked dryly.

Baldor looked unsure, but nodded. "Indeed."

"Well, then," Gilan said in an almost cheerful tone, "What is this _real _job that you keep alluding to? Or are you going to make me wait around some more?"

Baldor sighed, and chewed at his lip. He didn't trust Gilan, that much the Ranger could see. But he could also see that Baldor was desperate for help – and desperate men usually ended up taking desperate measures.

"I need you to track down and capture someone – two people, actually. If you do, I'll give you three thousand for each." Baldor explained. "My men and I haven't been able to do it so far. They were our next targets after Ranger Treaty, but they're a bit… Hard to get to." He explained.

"Where are they located?" Gilan asked, all business.

Baldor looked uncomfortable. "We're not sure." He confessed.

Gilan scoffed. "Well, you don't give me much to go on, Baldor. Do these un-trackable targets have names, or do you not know those, either?"

Baldor glared. "Yes, they've got names. You've probably heard of 'em, too."

"Well, then, let's hear them." Gilan prodded.

"We need you to track down and capture Ranger Halt and Sir Horace of Araluen." Baldor's glare bored into him. "Alive."

Gilan suddenly got the feeling that things around here were about to get rather complicated.

"Very well, then," Gilan said. The two men shook hands. Baldor left. Gilan cursed.

Complicated, indeed.

* * *

**A/N:** Well, that was a great way to procrastinate from my homework.

Read and Review, please. Let me know of any typos.


	10. Three, Two, One

**A/N: Okay, so some time ago I said I wouldn't be updating before NaNoWriMo was over. I lied. I've hit a block with my novel, but I am feeling the need to write, so guess what? Y'all get an update that's been long in the coming. Terribly sorry for the long wait.**

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* * *

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He had a horrible crick in his neck. In a world where absolutely nothing interesting happened to distract him, he took the pain as an almost welcome stimulation, if however unpleasant, to think about. He was too tired to try and sort out what all of this 'Doctor' nonsense was at the moment. Most of his cognitive functions had been sapped by the warmweed, anyway. He thought it was morning, but he couldn't be quite sure, stuck in the dark of the cave. He received the same meal of stale bread and dried beef twice every day, and so he couldn't tell which was breakfast and which was supper. His entire imprisonment was a blur. He let out a sigh. A very boring blur, at that. He hadn't seen Alda, Bryn, or Jerome for what seemed like days, now. That was a welcome change to the former regimen of beatings and lashings, but life was much less interesting now. The only other soul Will had seen for the past several days – or at least, what seemed like days – was the Doctor himself, and that hard old man hardly said anything that didn't pertain to latin medical terms and annoyed commentary on Will's condition.

As Will understood it, his ribs were almost completely healed, after some careful setting and treating by the Doctor. Also, in an interesting development, the Doctor had said that he was getting ready to start Will's 'treatment'. Will wasn't quite sure what that could mean, since he was already being treated, but something about it sent apprehensive shivers up his spine.

Ironically, just as he finished the thought, Will heard the Doctor step into the Ranger's cell.

"Well, it's about time." The silver-haired man grumbled. Will looked up, and saw that two other men, heavily built and gruff looking, accompanied the doctor. "Very well then. Bring him along – careful, now."

Without so much of a 'hello', Will was hoisted up by his arms and drug across the floor. As he passed the Doctor, the older man sent Will a wide smile, one that didn't quite reach his steel grey eyes. "Time to start your treatment, Mr. Treaty." Will watched him, and something deep in his gut told him that something was not right. Dread knotted itself into Will's gut. The ranger turned his head just in time to see a great fist headed towards his brow. His eyes widened for a split second, before he slumped over, unconscious.

* * *

"Of all the stupid, reckless, brash acts of sheer stupidity… One bloody misstep later, and look where it lands me! In the bloody lions' den! Blast you, irony! Bad luck to the extreme! Oh, this is just _perfect. _Gilan, you certifiable blasted _idiot!_"

Blaze watched her master with an impassive gaze. He'd been going on like this for some time, pacing back and forth, yanking at his blonde hair.

"Capture _Halt, _of all people? And Horace, too? And you _agreed _to this! You utter _moron! _What were you _thinking?_"

The mare snorted in resignation and lowered her head, waiting for her young ranger to quiet down. He showed no signs of doing so.

"You don't even know where they _are, _much less how you're going to find them, even much less how you'll ever explain _this _to them. 'Oh yes, Halt, you see, I'm a convicted criminal mercenary who's been hired to capture you and bring you to a mysterious crime lord who captured Will, too.' _What?_ Ugh, it's all so messed up!"

Suddenly, Gilan wheeled around to glare at no one in particular, and his eyes landed on Blaze. He sighed at her quiet gaze. "Sorry, girl." He told her. "I just wish I knew where to begin." He ruffled his fingers through his hair in frustration. The action only led to strengthen the eccentric look he was already sporting, but he didn't notice. "If only I had some lead – some idea as to where they were. I know they're headed here, of course, but for all I know, they could still be in Whitby. Or Redmont, for that matter. And as for how I'm supposed to 'capture' them without actually capturing them, well that will be a puzzle in and of itself. And then there's the rather simple matter of handing them over to a nameless, faceless crime lord who seems to have a personal vendetta against all of my closest friends." He threw his hands up in an exasperated motion, and turned to his horse, not ceasing his stream of words. "I mean, who is this fellow, anyhow? Does he want my head, too? Or is this just something about Will and Halt and Horace? I'm sure those three have gotten into scrapes that even I don't know about. They must have a dozen or so enemies out to get them. Is this one of them? If it is, how powerful is he? Or is it a she? Oh, it's all too crazy…" Gilan yanked at his hair again.

Blaze huffed her lips at Gilan in a befuddled way. Gilan sighed along with her. He closed his eyes, deep in thought, and after a few moments the ranger seemed to come to a sudden revelation.

"I'll have to find out who this 'Doctor' person is, first." Gilan told Blaze with determination. With this new goal in mind, he looked about, as if expecting a list of directions to float down from the sky, instructing him what to do next. For some reason, Gilan imagined that they would be written in Halt's handwriting. Of course, no such thing occurred, and he was left with his own intuition, what remained of his sanity, and his bored-looking horse.

"Right." He said with a nod, frizzed blonde strands bouncing around his face. "Hop to it, then, shall we? Come on, Blaze. We've a physician to interrogate."

* * *

"I suppose you'll be wondering where you are," It was only when he heard the voice that he realized that he was awake, "so I'll go ahead and inform you that you shouldn't try to figure it out. We're deep underground, now – several hundred feet, in fact. It's a ghastly climb down, but quite lovely once you get here. The mineral water down here is simply delightful – very pure and quite useful. But that really isn't your concern, now is it?" The Doctor tossed a contemptuous glance over at Will, who was laid out on a table-like slab of stone. Will was just regaining enough coherence to realize that he didn't have a shirt on, and that his wrists were bound to the table he lay on. A little voice in the back of his mind screamed at him: _Not good! Not good!_

"I suppose you're purpose here is rather unrelated to filtrated water. It is tedious, if not unpleasant, your job. But I dare say you'll be quite productive." As he made the last comment, the Doctor scanned Will's body, which was just healed over from his recent beatings. "You're fit and at least moderately well. Much more so than those stupid nobles."

_Nobles? _Will's mind was racing in double time with his heart. Was the Doctor referring to all of those missing nobles? Were they alive? Were they dead? Was Will about to join their fate?

"I must give your old mentor, Halt, a thank-you for training you up into a fit specimen such as yourself. Simply marvelous for experimentation."

As Will's eyes widened, the Doctor turned to him with a mock-apologetic look. "Oh, I'm sorry, did I mention? I know Halt. In fact, if the Sirs are to be trusted, your dear old master will be dropping by for a visit soon. A fascinating man, Halt." He looked up in a pensive manner. "I would very much like to have him in my collection."

Will involuntarily squirmed in his binds. _Collection? _He wasn't sure what exactly this man was about, but Will knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that there was something very, very wrong with this man.

"As for the 'experimentation', I hope you're not too alarmed. It's a harsh term for an otherwise respectable job and duty. In the long run, it shall reap positive results, I hope." He paused for a moment, before he shook himself.

"But I digress!" The Doctor slapped his hands together in a disturbingly cheery manner, and turned to pull out a small chest, which he placed before him on a table. "All in good time. I suppose I shouldn't spoil too much, should I? Rather, there are more immediate matters at hand. Your treatment, first and foremost." The Doctor reached into the chest and pulled out some instrument or other. Will was unable to catch sight of it, and as he tried to swivel his neck around to see it, he realized with some horror that which he did not notice before: His ankles were tied down.

"Oh, already trying to be a hero, are we?" The Doctor commented dryly, his back turned. "Really, Will, you've already got quite a record - no need for any more heroics. Hence the ropes. I really don't want to tie down your neck – it does dreadful things to the upper trachea, not to mention blood pressure on the brain - but I will if I must." He turned around to face Will. "Now. I can tell you truthfully that this will be rather painful. Hold still."

Will could only watch in horror as the Doctor seized one of his wrists with surprising strength and made a small incision with a very sharp knife on Will's arm, right over a vein. Then, using a strange glass contraption, the Doctor shot a vile of clear liquid straight into Will's pulsing bloodstream. The ranger hissed at the pain, and glared up at the Doctor. _What have you done to me?_ His look said.

"It's called a 'syringe'." The Doctor told him. "An old colleague of mine came up with the concept many years ago, but I just perfected the mechanics last year." He surveyed the glass object, the tip now glistening red with Will's blood, and then set it aside. "In all honesty, I have no idea how this particular drug will affect you. I know that it won't kill you, but the rest will be quite a surprise." The old man suddenly had a quill and parchment at the ready. "I shall be sure to take good notes."

Along with his rising sense of panic, Will realized that his vision was dimmer than it had been before. His hands started shaking, and all of a sudden, he could feel every single bump and uneven fissure in the granite slab burning into his back. His head throbbed loudly. He glared over at Doctor, and voiced a conviction that had been rising in his mind since he'd awoken, bound to that table.

"You're a monster." He hissed through chattering teeth.

The Doctor looked rather unimpressed. "It's shocking how many of them say that." He said absently, almost to himself.

Within a few minutes, Will was nearly in a seizure, he was shivering so violently, and he had to blink rapidly to block out the painful torchlight of the cave. The Doctor spoke occasionally, and he cringed at the sound, feeling as though his eardrums would split. Eventually, after a few notes and murmured commentary, the Doctor stepped forward and jabbed at Will's arm. The ranger screamed aloud and tried to recoil against his binds, gagging on the scream that the action provoked in his throat.

"Most interesting." The Doctor said, unconcerned of Will's pain. "Hypersensitivity at only two cubic centimeters? I would have expected less. But is it just neurological, or physiological as well? I suppose there's only one way to find out," The Doctor sighed, almost annoyed, "but I'm not really cut out for that kind of thing. You wait right here, Will, and I'll be back With Alda to test my theory." Parchment in hand, the Doctor left, leaving Will to writhe on his hard bed in agony.

There were four facts that Will knew in that moment. One: the drug that the Doctor had put into his body made him extremely sensitive to pain. Two: Alda was coming, and he would only bring more pain with him. The third fact was almost too hard for Will to admit, and he scared himself just by thinking it. Three: In that moment, Will wished that he were dead. A single tear ran down his cheek, and even its cool, light weight burned like fire on his skin. One last thought passed through Will's muddled mind before the Doctor and Alda entered.

_Find me, Halt. Please, please find me._

_

* * *

_

Halt pulled his cowl up close around his face to guard against the cold winds. He glanced over to his left and noted that Horace had sensibly removed his chainmail hood and replaced it with a thick felt cap and scarf. They hadn't seen any snow yet, but as they trekked northward, the jaded ranger was sure they would be seeing a good amount of the white stuff in time.

"How far out do you reckon we are?" Horace inquired in his companion, not impatiently.

Halt looked around before giving an answer. "A day or so, if we're lucky. But this darned weather will slow us down a day, maybe even a day and a half. We'll be camping in snow soon, I'd imagine." Halt told the knight over the strong winds. Then, under his breath, added: "I hate winter."

Horace nodded. If he had any qualms about sleeping in a snow-sopped sleep roll, he didn't let his feelings be known. Truthfully, he hadn't given the idea much thought. Rather, he was thinking that two days was an awfully long time to not know what was happening to Will. A lot could happen in two days, Horace knew, and he would just assume that nothing happened to Will before they got to him. He set his jaw, wishing that he could speed up time. "Right." He said to Halt. "I suppose I'll have to pull out the blankets, then." It was a lame way to finish a conversation, but Horace was too wrapped up in his own thoughts to care.

Halt was having similar trouble caring about their conversation. He'd hardly noticed Horace's comment, and barely even knew the man had spoken. Unbeknownst to Horace, Halt was being haunted by the very same thoughts that currently haunted the knight. A lot could happen in two days. A lot of very undesirable things could happen in two days. And a lot of undesirable things could happen in less than two days. Halt grit his teeth, and nudged Abelard into a quick canter. In his mind, Halt reverberated back to a scene set on a beach some ten odd years ago, and found himself muttering a familiar oath under his breath, not only to himself, but to a man who lay two days out of reach.

"I'll find you, Will. I'll find you."

* * *

**Extra brownie points for whoever can find the 'Three', the 'Two' and the 'One' that the chapter title refers to. **

**Woohoo! Now we finally get to the good part! Total Will whumpage, coming up! I hope I've made the Doctor suitably creepy enough for all of you creeper-lovers out there. I think he's quite the perverted, sociopathic genius, and I shall continue him on this route for the remainder of this story. Oh, and you see that note about his old 'colleague'? Yes, that shall come up again. That's all I can say, though. You'll have to wait for the next bit to see what I mean. Hope you enjoyed it!**

**R&R, please!**


	11. A Man of His Word

A/N: What ho? And update? It cannot be so! But it is! … Yeah. Sorry about the eh… *glances at last update* seven month delay. That wasn't very nice of me. Sorry. And look at that! You wonderful people have given me one hundred and fifteen reviews! I'd hug you all if I could.

Also, because absolutely no one got this from the last chapter, I'll tell you what the 'three, two, one' refers to. First of all, I totally screwed up by leaving some major typos in the last chapter concerning numbers, which would mess you guys up, so the lack of correct answers is really my fault. As I said, no one technically got it, but if memory serves, I do believe **Jedi Ani Unduli **was the closest.

Three: Three rescuers (Halt, Horace, Gilan)

Two: Two days to find Will (I know it initially said 1 ½ days, but that was something I skipped over in editing. Sorry!)

One: One victim to find (Will)

…You know, now that I think about it, I think that I like **Jedi Ani Unduli**'s version better. Oh well. Good guessing, all of you! It was fun reading your ideas.

* * *

"Put him in there," Alda told the men. The burly man brushed off his arms and wiped his hands on his dirty trousers – the action left fresh smears of blood in their wake.

The guards unceremoniously dumped the crumpled, groaning man into the cell, locked him in, and turned to leave. Alda stayed behind, looking down his crooked nose at the man behind the bars.

"Well, look at you. The almighty Will Treaty, finally put in his place." Alda sing-songed through a sneer. Will looked up at him through sweaty strings of hair, everything in his gaze begging for respite. "It's pathetic, really." His tormentor spat at him, "How truly weak you rangerfolk really are. And to think I once feared you." Then, he smiled, yellow and crooked. "Next I'll see to it that old man Halt never shoots another arrow. And then, that stupid big baby Horace. And after that- who knows? I may just decide to go after the entire corps." He let out a single chuckle. "It'd be a lovely trophy, that. And I'm sure the doctor wouldn't mind. He's always looking for new subjects. The old ones go so fast." He started to walk off. "You might even make it two whole days, if your lucky!" He laughed as he walked off through the caverns, his voice echoing off the stone walls.

Will lay motionless in his cell. It hurt to move. Alda had re-fractured at least two of his ribs, and the Doctor had 'tested' nearly seven different 'medicines' – including another dose of warmweed - on him before he'd been taken away. Will was no expert, but he was pretty sure that those seven tests had pushed his body past any safe limit – he was near to death even now, with the remnants still coursing through his blood. His skin tingled, and his head swam. He shook all over. _Just stop, please stop,_ Will had pleaded before. When they'd finally relented and scraped him off the table, he'd been relieved, but now he saw that the aftereffects of their treatment were just as bad. His eyes felt dry and painful, and though he was burning up inside, he wasn't sweating anymore. Will knew he was beyond dehydrated. Dehydrated, beaten, dirty, and stuck full of toxic chemicals. It had never before crossed Will's mind that he would die locked up in a cave as a part of cruel experiment on revenge, but that was the very fate that now faced him. Before he fell into unconsciousness, Will wondered briefly what Halt would say at his funeral – if he ever got a proper funeral.

* * *

Only two rooms away, completely unaware to Will's nearby presence, Gilan was escorted into the cave by two of Baldor's men. He had wrapped himself in his dark green cloak and used his natural height to great effect, puffing out his chest, taking long strides, and brooding silently from under his cowl at anyone who passed by. The thugs on either side of him, once very intimidating, now looked like two stray mutts cowering beside the alpha wolf, their tails shaking between their legs as they ushered him forward.

They were stopped at a doorway by to guards who crossed their rusty spears and demanded the stranger's business. The terrified mutts whimpered out a quick explanation, and one of the guards turned to leave. The other stayed behind to keep the newcomer where he was, though everyone in the room knew that he could have taken on all of them at once, if he wanted to.

But Gilan was a man of patience, and he really didn't want any trouble with these men. They were just worker ants, running to and fro, with no real knowledge of what was going on. He needed to reach the head of the operation – the man in charge.

"Good afternoon," a deep voice greeted him from halfway down a hall. Speak of the devil.

Gilan nodded silently but said nothing.

"I'm told that you're one of Baldor's new recruits." The man said disinterestedly as he wiped his hands on a small towel. Gilan noticed that it was smeared with fresh blood.

Ignoring the demeaning assessment, Gilan said, "Something of the sort. He's hired me to find two targets of yours, I believe."

The man arched a silvery eyebrow and glanced at Baldor. The warrior shifted his weight, and the man looked back to Gilan. "Really?"

"Yes. Halt and Horace are their names, I believe."

The man simply stared at Gilan for a moment before saying, "Of course." He straightened up, set aside his cloth, and tilted his head up to look down his nose at Baldor's new hired man.

"And why, my I ask, are you still here? If our targets were here, we would not need your help."

Gilan bowed slightly in acknowledgement, but said, "I wanted to see if it were true that the great Will Treaty has, in fact, been captured."

The old man immediately fixed Gilan with a look of suspicion. "Why?" He asked curtly, "What do you want with Treaty?"

Gilan bowed again out of respect. He had to play his cards carefully. "I merely want to know that Baldor can put gold where he claims he can. Also, I hoped to get some information out of the ranger before I set out after his friends. Any lead is better than none, Sir." The 'Sir' was a bit superfluous, Gilan thought, but the old man before him seemed to enjoy it, and at the moment that was Gilan's only interest.

"Of course," the man said after a while. "You've come just in time; I've just got done 'softening him up'."

Gilan was afraid that the man might see his disappointed frown, but fortunately, the man chose that moment to turn to one of his men standing guard.

"Ilun, take this man to the ranger's cell. Let him ask any questions he wishes."

Ilun nodded, and stepped out to lead Gilan deeper into the cave. As he passed, the old man stopped Gilan and whispered,

"If you speak a whisper of anything you see here, your throat will be slit within the very day."

Not missing a beat, Gilan answered, "I don't allow anyone to slit my throat – I slit theirs."

The man smiled humorlessly. "Very well. You may call me the Doctor, by the way." And he walked off. Gilan watched him go out of the corner of his eye. So this was the infamous 'doctor' of whom he'd heard so much about. Hardly the benevolent physician that he'd envisioned.

"This way, Sir," Ilun gestured toward a torch-lit tunnel that winded deeper into the caverns. Gilan followed, his cloak billowing softly behind him. They walked for some time without seeing anything besides stone walls and torches, but eventually, they came to the cell block. Gilan heard them before he saw them – that is, he heard the cells' occupants before he actually saw them. The young ranger was glad for the concealment of his cowl when he came upon the first face he recognized. A gray-faced sheriff from one of the townsteads near Redmont; he was good man, with a strong character – now crumpled and weeping in the corner of a dank cell. Just as he spied a large blotch of old blood on the cell floor, Gilan looked away, his teeth clenched. If he recognized any more faces or muffled voices, Gilan didn't give any sign that he did. Inside, he was fighting back all the emotions that he felt – revulsion, disgust, anger, pity, sadness, rage. It was hard enough to keep himself in check in the face of suffering strangers. Gilan could only pray that he'd be able to check himself when they finally got to Will.

"'Ere 'e is, Sir," Ilun said, gesturing towards a cell with the torch that he carried. In the brief moment that the cell was illuminated, Gilan caught a deep crimson glimmer that he knew was blood.

Swallowing hard, Gilan looked to Ilun, "I would like to ask the man a few questions. You may leave us, only give me the key to his cell."

Ilun hesitated, and Gilan smiled and shook his head. "If I wished to steal away your master's prize, I'd kill you. But I only need information – rest assured the prisoner won't be escaping any time soon." _Yet._ Gilan left the last word unspoken. Ilun seemed to be persuaded, or at least incredibly intimidated, so he handed Gilan the torch and a key. Once the guard was gone, Gilan fumbled with the key at the lock with shaking hands, terrified of what he might find on the other side.

"Oh, Will," Gilan breathed when he saw him. "What in the world have they done to you?" Will's skin was feverishly pink all over, and he bled from several abrasions on his arms, legs and torso. His chest was bruised from two cracked ribs, and there were long, precisely-cut incisions on his inner wrists that were bandaged with mediocre skill. At Gilan's approach, Will recoiled as quickly as he could, mumbling and whimpering fearfully. Gilan set the torch outside the cell on the stone floor, and brought a hand gently behind Will's head.

"It's okay, Will," he whispered, making sure there was no one else nearby to hear. He lowered his face down to Will's to make sure the other ranger could see him clearly. "It's me, Gilan."

Will's eyes searched the clear face before him and then, "Gilan?" He slurred out.

"Aye, it's me, Will. What on earth have they done to you?"

"Don't… Too many." Will blinked, as if trying to collect himself. "Doctor… Some sort of… experiments." Then Will's eyes widened in fear as he remembered something, he brought a bloody hand up to Gilan's face. "Gilan, they're here. Alda, Bryn… Jerome. They're here."

Gilan didn't recognize the names, but the shock in Will's eyes was real. "Who?"

Will obviously didn't have the strength to go into detail. "Used to know them… Redmont… They want revenge. Horace… Halt… they'll know." He said. His head sank back, but his fingertips lingered on Gilan's neck, as if to savor the sensation of friendly touch for as long as he could.

"Don't worry, Will," Gilan spoke quickly, knowing he didn't have much time until he had to leave or Will fell unconscious – frankly, he wasn't sure which would come first. "I'll find Halt and Horace. We'll come and get you. I swear, I won't let them keep you here."

At his words, a wave of fear and helplessness rose on Will's features. "No," Will whimpered, "Please…Can't leave me now." Will's eyes teared as he spoke, "The Doctor, he… Warmweed… Every day… Gilan, I can't… Please, not again…" Will's eyes shone with pain even as they fluttered close. Gilan caught the younger man's hand before it could fall to the floor.

"I swear to you Will, I will _not _let you die in here. Neither will Halt. Nor Horace. We'll find you, Will, and we'll get you out of here. I promise." Gilan gently laid Will's limp hand down, and his stomach gave a turn as he surveyed his own hand, now covered in Will's blood. He could feel another sticky smear on his neck where Will's hand had touched him, and Gilan could fight back the anger that rose in his throat against this 'Doctor' character. "I promise." Gilan wiped Will's hair back from his forehead, and rose reluctantly from where he crouched. He had to wipe at the tears that had risen unbidden in his eyes. He pulled up his cowl, squared his shoulders, and marched out of the cave with rage fueling his every step.

"I'll find the ranger and the knight," He growled at Baldor.

Baldor frowned and stopped the ranger before he could reach the door. "How do I know that you'll do the job right?"

Gilan rounded on him with a presence that made Baldor take an unconscious step backwards.

When he spoke, Gilan's voice was low and dangerous. "I'll do it, and that's all you need to know. I'm a man of my word." With a turn and a flutter of his cloak, Gilan was gone.

Oh, he'd find them alright. He hadn't the slightest idea of where they were or how long it would take him to track them down, much less how they would rescue Will, but Gilan would find Halt and Horace, and he _would _get Will back home safely, if it was the last thing he ever did. After all, he was a man of his word.


End file.
